


Becoming Us (Part 1)

by VivacissimoVoce



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dark Mark, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Harry, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 14:02:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 28,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2431484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VivacissimoVoce/pseuds/VivacissimoVoce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the war, Harry Potter and friends return to Hogwarts to repeat their interrupted final year. To everyone's surprise Draco Malfoy returns as well, but something has changed. Harry learns the weighty consequences of being marked as a Death Eater and must decide whether to help Draco escape his past. Non-canon Dark Mark backstory</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling. I do not claim any ownership of the characters or settings contained within. This story is for entertainment only and is not part of the official story line.
> 
> This is the first Drarry I ever wrote, and is part 1 of 2 stories that follow Harry and Draco from the start of their 8th year to the culmination of their relationship. Please see Becoming Us (Part 2) for the rest of the story. Contains mature content and language.

The war was over. It was an obvious fact, but worthy of note. The war was over, and had in fact been over for months. Deaths had been tallied, wounds had been healed, stories had been told, and now it was time for life to resume. The dark wizard Voldemort was dead, Hogwarts was nearly rebuilt, and the children were ready to return to school. It was time.

Harry Potter had considered not returning. Technically his education was complete, although his seventh and final year had been significantly disrupted by the war. So disrupted was the school year that Hogwarts had extended an invitation to all of the previous year’s final year students to return at no cost for another chance at graduation. Harry wasn’t tempted. He’d lost friends, lost loved ones, and he wondered if it was high time that he headed out into the wizarding world with the education he had, truncated though it was.

In the end it was Molly Weasley who convinced him to finish his final year, noting that he couldn’t give up on his dream of becoming an Auror now. With his grades from the tumultuous last year, he wouldn’t get accepted by the Academy any time soon. No, it would be best to return to Hogwarts for an eighth year, bring his grades up, and graduate with N.E.W.T scores that would be acceptable for any application.

Hermione was in full agreement, of course. But she would always support any recommendation that included more studying. Ron was also in full agreement, but he would always support whatever his girlfriend thought, lest she call a halt to the frequent and passionate snogging sessions she’d so recently introduced to their friendship.

Ginny was the only one who disagreed. She made it clear that she would prefer Harry simply fall off of the face of the earth rather than show his face at Hogwarts again. But that’s what anyone who’d just been through a nasty breakup would say. Harry hadn’t meant to hurt her, he hadn’t really meant to get close enough to hurt her. But things sort of took on a momentum of their own and before he knew it she was talking about getting married after school was done. She hadn’t taken Harry’s offer to slow down well. And when she didn’t take that offer well, he knew it was time to call it off. Which she took even less well. He could still feel the sting of her palm on his cheek.

When they boarded the train at Kings Cross Ginny split from their small group and headed to the front of the train. Knowing better than to follow her, Harry, Hermione, Ron headed to the back. They found an unoccupied compartment and slipped in as the train pulled away from the platform.

“Last time,” Hermione whispered, tracing her fingertip across the fogged glass as the train picked up speed.

“Unless you’re invited back for graduate levels,” Ron reminded her.

“I probably wouldn’t take the train,” she mused. “No one takes the train beyond seventh year.”

“Then I guess it is the last time,” the corners of Ron’s mouth drooped.

“We’ll still be together, though,” Harry pointed out. “Ron and I will get a flat together and we’ll both enter the Academy at the same time. And you’ll come visit between graduate studies,” he added.

“You’re right,” she shook her head and sat up straighter. “No use romanticizing it. Our friendship goes beyond the Gryffindor common room.” She smiled bravely, inspiring a mirrored smile in her enamoured boyfriend.

A motion out in the hall caught their attention. A shadow fell across the glass as someone approached from further down the train. A shock of white hair passed the first windowpane and the figure beneath paused momentarily at the door.

Draco Malfoy glanced in through the glass, eyes noting the occupants. The four seventh-year repeats gazed at each other silently, expressionlessly, before he moved on. Harry felt unsettled. Malfoy hadn’t thrust open the door and shot a snide remark at him. He hadn’t called him “Saint Potter.” He hadn’t called Ron “Weasel” and insulted his family. He hadn’t sneered at Hermione about her muggle heritage. He hadn’t looked inclined to do any of those things. He had barely registered before continuing on his way. Harry felt a strange sort of emptiness in his chest.

“Oh great, ferret face is back, too,” Ron rolled his eyes as though he were in agony. “I can’t believe they’d let him back in after what his family did.”

“He was cleared by the Ministry,” Harry reminded him.

“He’s a Death Eater,” Ron sneered. “Why would they let a Death Eater back into the school?”

“Technically he wasn’t,” Hermione spoke up. “He wasn’t willingly marked. His parents offered him to you-know-who and Malfoy was forced to follow him. That’s why he was cleared.”

“Yeah I’m sure all that really bothered him, too,” Ron folded his arms across his chest stubbornly and stared out of the window.

But Harry knew better. He had seen the conflict in Draco Malfoy, he had seen how the boy cried desperately when he showed Dumbledore his Dark Mark, as though threatening to kill him and begging for mercy in one breath. And he had seen Malfoy’s reluctance to reveal Harry’s identity to Bellatrix Lestrange, for reasons he still didn’t quite understand.

None of that erased seven years of antagonism and bloody evil pranks. But it said something that he had come back. What that something was, Harry wasn’t sure.


	2. Chapter 2

The Gryffindor trio clattered down the stairs from their newly assigned rooms, late for dinner in the Great Hall. It wouldn’t do to be absent for the Sorting Hat ritual. They drew up short as they reached the doors, noting the small group gathered outside, all eighth-years. Draco averted his eyes, not wanting to seem interested in the evening’s events.

Neville Longbottom waved them over, “Professor McGonagall asked us to wait out here so they can bring us in together.”

“Why would she do that?” Weasley wondered, looking around. There were only a handful of students remaining from each house, a far cry from the number they’d started with eight years ago.

“No sodding clue,” Blaise Zabini scoffed. “Probably want to give us their pity for having to repeat a grade.”

The remaining Slytherins snickered with him, with the exception of Draco, who stood slightly apart from the group. He watched his classmates joke and tussle as they always had but he felt distant from it all. The prospect of sparring with Gryffindors, Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs for superiority was no longer appealing. He had returned partly in the hopes of finding comfort in the familiar, some kind of normalcy in a life that had completely upended. But it just didn’t feel right. It wasn’t the same. Everywhere he went he felt eyes on him, unspoken “Death Eater” on everyone’s lips. He saw eyes dart furtively to his left arm, as though they could perceive the dark mark there through his sleeve. He felt tainted. He felt like the the wizarding world knew he was tainted. He wasn’t sure how to remove the stain..

The Great Hall doors swung open and Headmistress McGonagall called them in from the head table. The rest of the students gave the eighth-years a standing ovation, and the teachers commended them for their bravery in returning to complete their educations.  
Draco ducked his head and headed straight to the Slytherin table, knowing the applause wasn’t for him. In his haste he bumped into someone, and looked up into quiet, green eyes.

“Sorry, Malfoy,” Potter smiled awkwardly and stepped to the side to let Draco pass.

Draco nodded, “Potter,” he said flatly. It was the best he could do. He didn’t want to fight, certainly not right now, but he couldn’t summon friendliness. That was asking too much.

Potter seemed to understand and turned to sit with his fellow Gryffindors. Malfoy sat near the center of the sparsely seated Slytherin table. They’d lost a lot of students. Some had been expelled for their actions during the war, some had been transferred to different schools by families who no longer wished to be associated with their house. He hoped the Sorting Hat still saw some merit in the Slytherin name and assigned plenty of first-years to its ranks.

As it turned out, the Sorting Hat seemed to have the same idea. Hagrid stepped forward and held it high so its voice could reach the back of the room. It spoke of house assignments, describing the qualities associated with each name. It spoke strongly of Slytherin, noting that its members were ambitious, powerful, savvy, and clever. And it noted, perhaps more strongly, that Slytherin was not synonymous with evil. It ended by telling the waiting first-years that a Slytherin assignment was something to be proud of.

The Slytherin table burst into cheers at that. The other three houses applauded supportively, if a bit dubiously. Draco shared their dubiousness, but he couldn’t help feeling proud anyway. The hat assigned nearly a third of the new students to Slytherin and wished them luck. Draco decided right then and there that if Slytherin House was to rebuild its name, to break its tie with evil, he would have to help lead the way.

And he would rebuild his own name at the same time.


	3. Chapter 3

Classes were a bit different this year. Due to the small number of eighth-years returning, the Headmistress chose to combine them all as one group around a reduced set of classes deemed most fundamentally important for passing the N.E.W.T exams. Their remaining time would be spent in a less structured apprenticeship with a teacher of their choosing, according to the specialty that most suited their future goals. That first week much discussion was held amongst the eighth-years about their available options.

Many of the students approached the decision by clustering in the library, looking up wizarding careers and trying to decide which classes best aligned with their interests. Harry, Ron, and Hermione crouched around a large book near an arched leaded window between the stacks, reading the profiles of famous wizards and their areas of expertise.

“Harry, if you’re going to be an Auror,” Hermione traced her finger along the tiny blocks of text, “you should take up Potions or Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

“Me too, right?” Ron looked up for reassurance. “I’m going into the Academy, too.”

“True,” Hermione frowned. “But are you sure you don’t want to pursue something a little less,” she searched for the right word, “dangerous?”

“If we weren’t dating would you ask me that,” Ron’s eyes darkened and his cheeks flushed pink. Since he and Hermione had started holding hands and snogging his ability to disagree with her had all but vanished. For him to have even asked the question was impressive, Harry thought.

“Maybe not,” Hermione sat back and closed the heavy tome. “You can’t blame me for wanting to keep you safe. You have a gift for animals,” she added. “Why don’t you do an apprenticeship with Hagrid?”

“She’s got a point,” Harry smiled. “I mean, no one’s ever gotten hurt working with dragons, right?”

Hermione rolled her eyes tolerantly. “At least dragons don’t conspire to commit crimes,” she sighed. “And Ron’s brother could be very helpful for finding a job after graduation.”

“You’re right, I’ll talk to Hagrid,” Ron agreed, raising his eyebrows and smiling at Harry with false brightness. “It probably is a better plan than becoming an Auror.”

Harry held his gaze for a moment, wishing he could voice the thoughts in his head. You’re changing for her, he thought. She loves you for who you are, not the simpering obedient lad you’re becoming. But he couldn’t very well say that, not without risking their friendship. So to prevent himself from speaking out of turn, he stood and muttered something about needing a drink of water and threaded his way back through the stacks to the exit.

As he reached the door a flash of white caught the corner of his eye. He turned, his hand on the inlaid wooden panel, and saw Draco Malfoy standing at a heavily laden bookcase, leafing through a crumbling, dusty, leather-bound book. He withdrew his hand, not really thirsty anyway. He looked around for a reason to speak, and finally just cleared his throat. Gray eyes raised and looked his way.

“What do you want, Potter?” Malfoy’s response was familiar, almost comforting in its hostile structure, but his tone was flat, lacking the acidity that usually came as easily as breathing.

“Nothing,” Harry said hurriedly. “I was just going to get a drink of water.”

“Well then,” Malfoy returned to his book, “thank you for letting me know.”

Harry’s cheeks burned. He shuffled his feet, leaning against the door and trying to think of something else to say. “Have you decided which teacher to apprentice with?”

“Deciding that now,” Malfoy drawled, not looking up.

“What is that, a book on healing potions?” Harry peered through his round lenses and crept forward for a better look.

Malfoy looked up again finally. He quietly closed the cover and slid it back onto the shelf. “I’m thinking about going into healing,” he said, doubt briefly etching a line between his eyebrows.

“I never thought you’d go beyond Hogwarts,” Harry inched forward another step, poking a verbal stick at their old rivalry. “I thought your plan was to inherit your family’s fortune and live a life of leisure.”

“Well I’ve done the first part,” Malfoy said sharply. Harry flushed again, remembering belatedly that he’d lost both parents in the war and had taken sole possession of his family’s wealth. “Frankly it’s a bit boring.” He drew a breath and took the edge out of his voice, “Besides, the name Malfoy has lost some of its value. Most of its value, actually. I’d like to find the shortest path between now and the day when I can rejoin society.”

“Healing is admirable work. You could build a good reputation that way,” Harry nodded. He glanced down reflexively at Malfoy’s concealed left arm. He wore long, fitted sleeves beneath his Slytherin robes, unlike Harry, who preferred just a muggle t-shirt.

Malfoy noticed the attention and self-consciously moved his arm behind his back. His eyes darkened and he nodded bitterly as though he could read Harry’s thoughts. “Exactly.”


	4. Chapter 4

McGonagall granted Draco’s petition to apprentice with Madam Pomfrey, even though she technically wasn’t a teacher. The Headmistress seemed pleased, perhaps relieved at the boy’s choice of career path. He began a rotation in the sick ward, helping Pomfrey mend cuts, scrapes, bites, and hexes gone wrong. She didn’t seem to mind the company, in fact her demeanor was friendly enough that Draco almost didn’t recognize the terse, hard-toned medical professional he remembered from his visits in the past.

“You have to be caring but firm,” she explained. “You need to hear the patient’s complaints, feel their pain, but not coddle whatever lack of judgement led them to injury in the first place.” In Madam Pomfrey’s world, every injury was attributable to a lack of judgment. There were no accidents, only mistakes.

Firmness was no problem for Draco. He’d been bossing people around since he could point his finger. Caring was the hard part. He couldn’t figure out how to care without being weak. Over the years his father had taught him that all but the coldest and hardest emotions were signs of weakness. How could one care for a patient without giving them the upper hand?

He found the unconscious students the easiest to care for. They weren’t able to seize the upper hand. Weakness wasn’t weakness when one’s opponent was mentally absent, he told himself.

“A patient isn’t an opponent,” Pomfrey snapped when he shared that thought one day. “Most healing spells require caring as a catalyst. If you can’t manage that, you’ll never make it past bandaging and healing pastes.”

Draco promised to put more thought into it. He needed to stay on her good side and keep building trust with her. Especially if he was going to learn the kind of healing spells only she could share.


	5. Chapter 5

“Harry Potter,” Professor Slughorn looked up in surprise. “Have you left your cauldron behind?”

“No, sir,” Harry edged reluctantly into the room. Slughorn wasn’t his favorite teacher, not by a long shot. But unless he could overcome his reluctance to spend more time with the dark arts, this was his best apprenticeship opportunity. “I’ve come to ask if you would take me on as an apprentice this year.”

Slughorn’s eyebrows shot up and he blustered in surprise. He was clearly torn, too, but could find no reason to object. He agreed, and immediately set Harry to work organizing the tincture cabinet. It wasn’t exactly the kind of practicum Harry had in mind, but he supposed it was better than the alternative. He knew he would be up against dark magic as an Auror, and his training would require him to overcome his reluctance. But he needed some time and space before facing it again.

After an hour of cleaning between sticky and oozing vials, he stood and stretched his shoulders and rolled his head around his neck to ease the strain of crouching over. Ron appeared in the doorway and invited him to dinner, which he accepted gratefully.

“Back here tomorrow,” Slughorn called. “Plenty more of that sort of work to do.”

“I need to stop in the restroom,” Harry muttered as he escaped with his best friend. “My hands reek of slugs and guts.”

“Well I spent the morning shovelling griffin dung with Hagrid,” Ron said morosely, as only Ron could. “You don’t want to know what I reeked of before I showered.”

They paused at the first floor boys lavatory and Harry ducked in for a slash and a quick scrub. As he zipped up Draco Malfoy emerged from one of the stalls, tucking his shirt in as he approached the sink. He nudged his sleeves up as he turned on the tap and squeezed some soap into his palm.

Harry flushed the urinal and joined the Slytherin boy at the washbasins. He glanced over and saw a frayed edge of a bandage peeking out from under Malfoy’s retracted left sleeve. Malfoy concentrated on not noticing. He dried his hands with a quick evaporation charm and departed without a word.

Harry sighed. In the old days Malfoy would have looked for an opportunity to get in a quick jab at his muggle connections or his high status as the chosen one. And on the way out he would have called Ron “Weasel” and made a comment about his family’s income. But neither of those things had happened. Malfoy was distracted these days, different from before. Harry wished things didn’t have to be different. Everyone was changing.

Not that he had much time to ponder the changes. In spite of the open, more relaxed curriculum, Harry found himself run ragged by Professor Slughorn’s demands. And of course, just because Harry was apprenticing with Slughorn, that didn’t mean he could drop his regular Potions class. He was required to attend with everyone else, and he struggled with everyone else to conquer the advanced recipes and rituals that went into the final year’s competency.

And now that he had Slughorn’s attention, he found himself selected for demonstrations more often. He had long since lost the assistance of Snape’s old textbook, so he was back to relying on his own skills to get through his lessons.

Malfoy seemed to be struggling for the first time, too, in the absence of Professor Snape. Snape had always helped him, correcting this measurement or that ingredient. Now he was on his own and seemed to lack confidence in his knowledge.

One afternoon the eighth-years were working on a particularly fussy potion that required the students to measure the iron content in their mixing utensils so the metal wouldn’t corrupt the mixture. Malfoy’s mistake was cursing audibly when his metallurgy spell ricocheted and struck his cauldron instead.

“Problems, Mister Malfoy?” Professor Slughorn called from the front of the class. He gestured vaguely in Harry’s direction. “Mister Potter, please assist Mister Malfoy.”

Harry looked up from his own line-up of metal tools. He wasn’t having much success, either. How could he help? His apprenticeship hadn’t taught him anything yet, other than the tactile difference between cleaning up a slimy ointment versus a sticky unguent. He stepped up to the next riser and inspected the four long spoons Malfoy was attempting to rank by iron content. He looked up hesitantly and met Malfoy’s distant, arrogant stare. He shrugged weakly and mouthed, “I don’t know either.”

To his surprise, Malfoy smiled. It wasn’t big, just the merest hint across his lips. And not a sneering, jeering smile. Not quite an expression of camaraderie, but not too far from it either. Feeling emboldened, Harry reached across and pulled Malfoy’s textbook closer.

“Maybe if we figure this out together, I can get on with my assignment, too,” he whispered under his breath. Malfoy crouched next to him and together they scoured the text.

Behind them, Hermione let out a squeak, indicating that her spell had gone correctly and she’d identified the right utensil. Up in the rear corner of the room Seamus accidentally knocked three of his spoons to the floor, clattering and startling the other students. Harry jumped back, reacting reflexively to the clamor. He grabbed Malfoy’s arm as though to pull him away from danger, too.

“Watch it!” Malfoy hissed and yanked his arm back, cradling it to his chest protectively.

“Sorry,” Harry ducked his head apologetically. Malfoy glowered at him, cupping his forearm in his right hand and gritting his teeth against the pain.

“I think I can get it from here,” he said coldly, gray eyes clouded.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said again. “I was startled.”

“Just let me finish my assignment,” Draco lowered his arm gingerly and pulled his textbook back over to his side of the table.

Harry returned to his own workstation miserably, wishing for the days before the war when every little noise didn’t set his nerves on end.


	6. Chapter 6

Draco had learned a few things about healing potions and spells from Madam Pomfrey. Some were good for stitching up wounds. Others were good for regrowing limbs. And still others were good for removing growths and other nasty things. Those were the spells Draco was most interested in. He had tried a few in the privacy of his own room, scorching and abrading the skin of his left forearm, usually painfully but never effectively. It was a cycle of self-injury and self-healing, followed by another method of self-injury. His arm hurt constantly, but still the Dark Mark glowered balefully beneath the surface of his skin.

One evening during the third week of September he made his way to the Potions room and quietly let himself in. It wasn’t strictly off limits for last year students to fit in some extra practice time between classes, but to do so when staff was unaware and the potions to be brewed were not on the syllabus was certainly irregular.

He set his cauldron down on the work surface and spread out his tools. He quickly rifled through the cabinets for the basic potion components, taking a few trips to ensure nothing was dropped or spilled. He lit a fire beneath the iron pot and began adding the liquid components first, slowly heating them to a simmer.

He was just about to stir in the first of the dried, ground salamander hide when the supply closet door swung open and a filthy and exhausted looking Harry Potter emerged. He looked surprised by Draco’s presence and he blinked once or twice before speaking. Draco was annoyed, not so much at Potter’s presence, but at the timing.

“I didn’t know anyone was here,” Potter swiped the back of his hand across a smudge on his cheek.

“What have you been doing in there, Potter?” Draco replied. “You’re a total mess.”

“Slughorn has me doing more cleaning and organizing,” Harry jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Some of that stuff probably hasn’t been wiped down since the sixth century.”

“Not getting much out of your apprenticeship, are you?” Draco turned his attention back to his simmering pot and sprinkled the ground salamander hide in slowly. He watched for the color to change very specifically to a deep cobalt blue.

“I think Slughorn thinks I’ll learn about potions if I simply put my hands on every ingredient,” Potter said ruefully. He squinted and approached Draco’s table, “Is that salamander hide?”

“Is it your business?” Draco retorted, cutting the flame at exactly the moment the potion turned blue.

“Salamander hide is for fire spells,” Potter peered over the edge of the cauldron as though he could divine the potion’s purpose by its appearance.

Draco declined to answer, instead donning his dragonhide gloves so he could decant the blue liquid into a waiting stone jar.

“What are you going to burn?” Potter asked quietly.

“Nothing,” Draco was visibly annoyed. “I’m making a preparation for Pomfrey.”

“Oh,” ‘Potter looked up, his eyes regretful.

Draco had a hard time meeting his gaze. While he struggled with empathy and caring, Potter seemed to overflow with both emotions. He was strong and bold and daring, but also soft and genuine and comforting. Draco didn’t know how to respond when those qualities were directed at him. Frankly, it was embarrassing. He knew how to respond to hatred and cruelty, but this was something he was unprepared for. And he didn’t like it.

He finished pouring off the remaining potion and used his wand to whisk away his preparation tools to the cleaning station. Potter stood awkwardly to the side and said nothing as Draco exited without another word.


	7. Chapter 7

Harry’s heart was heavy. He had learned so much about Malfoy during the war, how his family drove him to obedience, how his parents had given him up to the dark lord as an offering, how Voldemort had coerced him by threatening his parents’ lives. He’d always thought Malfoy was a prat, but he didn’t think he was evil. He’d been used, over and over, by people more powerful than him. He was given no choice about the path he walked, and then he lost everything.

He returned to his room from the Gryffindor showers, grateful to have scrubbed the filth of a hundred mucky potion supplies from his skin. The eighth-year students had been granted solo dorm rooms, and he enjoyed the privacy of his own secured space for the first time in his life. His room contained the usual four-poster bed with privacy curtains, an easy chair, a desk, and a little magical sanitary pot in the corner for those times when creeping downstairs for a pee in the midnight chill was unappealing. It was everything he needed, all perched at the top of the tower above the rest of the Gryffindor residents. His view was spectacular. He could see all the way to Hagrid’s hut and the forbidden forest beyond. Sometimes late at night he could catch glimpses of strange creatures rising up from the tree cover, only to dart away in a blink.

He shed his robe, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. His room was not neat by any stretch of the imagination. He reveled in the chance to keep his space as messy as he wanted, to sleep naked when he wanted to, and to wank in peace when the moment felt right. He climbed into bed, pulling the blankets up to his chin, sighing contentedly at the sensation of smooth sheets on bare skin. He closed his eyes and reached down, running his fingers languidly across his groin. His member awoke at the touch, perking up a bit, then a bit more.

He knew that Malfoy wasn’t evil, as few people truly understood. He knew what it meant to be a prisoner to other people’s expectations. To feel powerless to go against the decisions of others. But the war had taken the fight out of the blond Slytherin. He had seen the suspicion in Harry’s eyes tonight, a suspicion that was as habitual as it was unsubstantiated. In the old days he would have shot back at Harry with a cruel gibe or a hex. But tonight he had just seemed defeated. Tired, annoyed, distant, and defeated. He had taken Harry’s suspicion and simply moved on without retaliating. Something was gnawing at him, eating away at his focus and his spirit. Although he would never admit it to anyone else, he missed Malfoy’s spirit. And he missed being the focus of it.

He gasped as he came, his pulls rapid and short. His stomach muscles contracted, pulling him up off of the pillow as his hand filled with the familiar warm, wet stickiness. Sighing with relief he laid back and enjoyed the spreading glow in his abdomen. He patted his hand across the bedside table until he found his wand, then cast a clean-up charm. It was the little things, the little conveniences that sometimes made him most grateful to be a wizard.


	8. Chapter 8

Draco was hurt, and he had no one to go to but Madam Pomfrey. He clutched his scorched arm to his chest and hurried into the medical ward, looking everywhere for the nurse. When he found her he could scarcely whimper, and simply held his arm out for her to see the damage.

“Good heavens what have you done?” Pomfrey swept him to a bed and seated him on the starched, white sheets. Draco was unable to to answer through the pain. She pushed his sleeve back further, exposing a horrendous burn on his left forearm, seared across his dark mark from his elbow to his wrist.

“Hold this here,” Pomfrey doused a clean cloth with a numbing potion and pressed it to the burn. She hustled off to the medicine cabinet and waved her wand to lift the protective wards. She returned with wound cleaning ointments and bandages. The numbing potion began to take effect, leaving a tickling furry sensation in place of the pain. Draco whimpered once more, this time in relief.

“I spilled in potion class,” he explained, hoping the teachers didn’t compare notes. He was certain Pomfrey would have no reason to have memorized his class syllabus.

“Slughorn should take more care when teaching the uses of salamander hide,” she muttered disapprovingly as she lifted the cloth and gently dabbed a fire potion neutralizer on his arm. Now that the pain was easing, Draco could look at his skin. There were deep channels burnt into his arm, like acid had eaten straight through his skin and deep into the muscle tissue. Which was precisely what had happened, he thought.

“Salamander requires great care,” Pomfrey continued, now applying a healing ointment. Her wand remained in its holster. “It builds upon itself. A double dose is four times as powerful as a single dose. A triple dose is more nine times as powerful. Every bit of salamander added makes the fire burn hotter.” She began rolling gauze around his arm. “I can’t mend this for the next two days. We have to keep an eye on it to make sure we neutralized all of it.” She caught his eye seriously, “If we mend it now and even a drop of the potion is trapped, the fire will spread and burn from the inside.”

Draco nodded, his stomach tightening in a knot. He took an extra roll of gauze and agreed to re-wrap the wound twice a day for the next two days. He agreed to return if the burn spread or worsened. She gave him a small bottle of numbing potion for the pain and sent him on his way.


	9. Chapter 9

Harry looked up from his homework as the door to the library opened and closed with a dull thud. Hermione entered and deposited an armload of books on the return cart. Then as part of her apprenticeship she drew her wand and began directing the books back to the shelves. She had chosen a career path in historical research, a goal well suited for her voracious appetite for learning. The library was her new home now, and Madam Pince seemed to approve highly of her new assistant. It was the only thing Madam Pince had ever seemed to approve highly of, Harry thought.

He was having a hard time concentrating on his herbology homework. He’d never enjoyed the subject much, and today his head was swimming with fumes from the ingredient preparation work Slughorn had tasked him with. Grinding lizards and seed pods all afternoon had left his hands sore and his sense of smell singed. He sat at one of the clustered tables near the genealogy stacks, gazing out of the window across the angled roofline of the school.

The library door opened and closed with another dull thud. Draco Malfoy entered and surveyed the library with his usual haughty gaze. His eyes paused on Harry before moving on to the rest of the room. He approached stiffly, holding his left arm awkwardly and rigidly at his side. He carried two heavy tomes in his right arm, and clearly could have used the assistance of his left hand to distribute the burden. He paused at Harry’s table and looked down, the groove between his eyebrows betraying his reticence.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked finally.

“Sure,” Harry shrugged casually, as though to indicate that he didn’t claim ownership of any of the chairs. There was no one else in this section of the library, no reason to crowd in unless Malfoy just wanted the company. Harry made himself promise not to be unjustifiably suspicious.

Malfoy sat stiffly in a chair diagonally across the table from Harry. He flipped open the top book and began leafing through the table of contents. Harry tried to see what he was reading without gawking.

“Nosy?” Malfoy quirked an eyebrow disapprovingly.

“A little,” Harry said honestly.

“Healing spells,” Malfoy held up the book to give Harry a full view. The sleeve of his robe folded back, revealing an uneven wind of gauze around his left arm. The gauze showed red splotches, as though a wound were bleeding through.

“What happened to your arm?” Harry gasped, reaching out without thinking.

“Nothing,” Malfoy withdrew, hiding his arm in his lap beneath the table. He stared pointedly at his book as though he could stop further questions through the power of reading.

Harry furrowed his brow. Malfoy was hiding something, but then again maybe he was actually hoping Harry would notice. Why else would he have sat over here, why else would he have exposed the bandage?

“It doesn’t look wrapped well,” Harry said quietly, glancing around to make sure Hermione wasn’t around to overhear.

“It’s hard to do one-handed.” Draco said dryly.

“Would you like some help?” Harry offered.

“I’m fine,” Draco’s voice softened.

“Really, it’s no bother,” Harry stood and shrunk his books down to pocket size. “It will heal better if it’s wrapped properly.”

Draco looked up, then down at his arm in his lap. “Okay.”

They exited the library, crossed through the breezeway, and descended towards the dungeons. Harry waited in the hall outside while Malfoy entered Slytherin house to retrieve a fresh roll of bandages. He emerged a few moments later with a pocketful of supplies. 

With an unspoken agreement they found privacy in a rarely used restroom near one of the wings that was still under reconstruction.

Malfoy set a row of small items on the mirror ledge: bandages, a small pot of healing ointment, and a vial of numbing potion. He hesitated for a moment, then shed his robe and hung it on a hook near the door. he pushed back the sleeve on his green crewneck pullover to expose the bandaged area below his elbow. With a flick of his wand he released the free edge of the bandage and unrolled it gingerly.

Harry gasped when he saw the wound. Deep, angry grooves crawled in rivulets from his elbow to his wrist. It was red and fluid looking, like a lava flow. It was deep, too, carving into muscle with a sickening, oozing redness. Between the gouges the Dark Mark stood out bold and black against his pale skin.

“How did this happen?” Harry asked, although he felt with a sick certainty that he knew how. “Is this from the salamander potion?”

“It didn’t work the way I intended,” Malfoy said dryly in the understatement of the century.

“You put it on your own skin?” Harry moved quickly, taking a piece of gauze and soaking it in the numbing potion. He held it gently against the tortured wound, scared to apply pressure. Draco’s right hand swept in, taking over and pressing the pain reliever firmly against his arm. He didn’t answer Harry’s question.

“Are you trying to remove the dark mark?” Harry asked stupidly. Of course that was what he was doing, it was obvious.

“Normal healing spells haven’t lifted it,” Malfoy held the numbing potion in place, slowly clenching and unclenching his left hand as the pain lessened. “I’ve been looking for other things that might work.”

“If you’re going to put a salamander potion on your own skin, you might as well just chop off your arm,” Harry snapped, horrified that Malfoy had disfigured himself this way. If he had only asked for help-- but no, that’s not how Malfoy did anything.

“I’ve thought about it,” Malfoy said, looking up seriously. “But sometimes I like to wank left-handed. Would be a shame to lose that.”

Harry stared at him dumbly for a moment. A smile broke over Malfoy’s face. Not a sneer, not a smirk, but an actual smile. He’d made a joke. He’d made a joke to Harry. Harry couldn’t help it, he burst out laughing.

He reached over for the healing ointment and Malfoy removed the cloth with the numbing potion. Harry found himself unable to touch the wounds, and couldn’t apply the cream. Malfoy understood and simply had him hold the pot while he applied it himself. He grimaced as he worked, clearly not enjoying the sensation. When he finished he nodded to the gauze and Harry finally felt useful.

“The day after tomorrow Madam Pomfrey will be able to start healing it up,” Malfoy said through gritted teeth as Harry wound the gauze around his arm. “I just need to keep it wrapped until then.”

“I’ll help, if you need it,” Harry worked slowly, uncoiling the bandage as he rolled it on.

“I might need help tomorrow morning, after my shower,” Malfoy said as though it were a question. “And then again tomorrow afternoon. And maybe again in the morning before I go back for Pomfrey’s examination.”

“Just send a beacon charm when you need me,” Harry worked the last bit of gauze twice around Malfoy’s wrist to hold it in place. “Just a spark to get my attention. I’ll meet you here.” He retrieved his wand and flicked once to hold the gauze in place. “That should do it.”

Malfoy flexed his fingers and carefully rotated his wrist. He nodded approvingly and slid his green sleeve down. He slipped back into his robe and pocketed his supplies. They exited the bathroom and turned to depart in separate directions. Malfoy paused, his eyes searching but his voice silent. Finally he spoke.

“I appreciate your assistance,” he said with cold formality.

“Anytime,” Harry smiled warmly. Then he turned and departed, heading for Gryffindor house.


	10. Chapter 10

Draco wasn’t lying when he said he liked to wank left-handed sometimes. It wasn’t his usual method, but it did the trick when the mood was right. Unfortunately he wasn’t able to do so comfortably with his arm wounded, which of course just made him want it more.

He gripped himself with his right hand, eyes closed and focusing on an image in his mind. A soft, sort of shapeless person, a shadow at most, kneeling on the ground and sucking him off. He ran his left hand through his blond hair, and in his imagination he thought of reaching down and ruffling his fingers through short, messy, brunette locks. He pulled and stroked, summoning a satisfactory orgasm that helped ease the tension in his muscles.

He cast a cleaning charm and laid back, staring sleepily at the fabric dome over his four poster bed. His room was quiet, and although he still had the same old feeling of being cramped in a sleeping space that was a fraction of the size of his suite at home, at least he had four walls and a door now. It was a significant step up from the intolerable shared sleeping spaces from previous years.

He lifted his arm and inspected his bandages to make sure they wouldn’t come loose in his sleep. Potter had done an adequate job, he admitted to himself. He’d struggled to rewrap it himself after his shower, after Pomfrey had sent him away with instructions to keep it covered. He hadn’t gone to the library looking for help, he told himself. He certainly hadn’t looked for Potter. But it was nice that it had worked out the way it did. He drifted off to sleep with a smile on his lips.

He woke up grumpy.

He cussed out a first-year Slytherin who tried to line-jump and get a shower in before him. He cursed the boy with a leg-locker to teach him some respect for upperclassmen. As he stepped into the warm spray he enjoyed hearing the boy thump around as he tried to hop back to the common room for assistance. It brought back so many memories of hilarious pranks on unwitting classmates. If he ever found access to a Pensieve, he promised himself that he would first and foremost extract the memory of leg locking that moon-faced Longbottom boy eight years ago so he could relive the hilarity in full.

His reputation for quick and efficient retaliation had earned him the respect of the newly assigned underclassmen. The older students, who had grown up with his arrogant demeanor and commanding style had reinforced his reputation. He was, for lack of a better word, cool. He had expected to return as an outcast, a tolerated remnant of the losing side of the war. Instead word had spread of his acquittal, which somehow had translated into a story of triumph over adversity. He found himself at the apex of the pyramid of power that defined the social structure of Slytherin house. And he wasn’t inclined to disabuse his housemates of the mythology that had placed him there.

He stepped out of the shower and towelled off, returning to his room with his left arm held stiffly against his side to conceal his wound. He closed himself in and checked it carefully. No signs of spreading or worsening. Pomfrey must have successfully neutralized the salamander flame. He dressed quickly as the clock tower chimed to indicate the start of the breakfast hour. He had to hurry of there wouldn’t be time to bandage his arm and grab a bite to eat before his first class. He raised his wand and flicked a beacon charm, which sent a green spark sailing out of the tip and through the wall. It would travel directly to Potter, wherever he was, to let him know that he wanted to meet.

He tugged his school robe around his shoulders and pocketed his shrunken class materials. He dashed out with a quick wave to set the wards on his bedroom door, then darted out of the dungeons without another word to any of this housemates.

Potter arrived at the restroom a few moments after Draco, looking sleepy and rumpled as though he’d just rolled out of bed. “Hullo,” he flashed a lopsided smile and scratched his fingers through his mess of dark hair.

“Did you sleep in a laundry hamper?” Draco blurted out, unable to keep the scorn from his voice.

“Sort of,” Potter smiled ruefully. “I had a lot of herbology homework to catch up on. I fell asleep at my desk.”

“You shouldn’t have let me interrupt you yesterday,” Draco chided him, but extended his arm for assistance anyway. He had already applied the numbing potion and the healing ointment.

Potter deftly wound the gauze around Draco’s arm, moving more quickly with experienced fingers. “It looks a bit better today,” he remarked. “Less oozing.”

“Yes, well I hope Madam Pomfrey can seal it up more quickly than it will heal on its own,” Draco flexed his fingers as Potter fixed the end in place.

“Do you think the Dark Mark will return to the burned areas?” Potter asked as Draco pulled his sleeve down over the bandage.

“Probably,” Draco shrugged. “Even if it doesn’t, there’s still enough of it left to make the whole effort pointless.”

“Have you asked her if there’s a way to remove it?” Potter asked the obvious question.

“Not directly. But there’s no known way,” Draco shook his head. “I’ve been researching it myself. No one knows how to lift an enchanted dark mark. It’s tattooed into the skin.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” Potter said as they exited the restroom. They walked together for a few steps, then realized they were both headed to the Great Hall for breakfast. No way to go their separate directions. Awkwardly they kept going, not speaking and feeling a little self-conscious. As they reached the doors Draco hung back to let Potter proceed ahead of him. Potter glanced back, his eyes regretful. But he understood. It wouldn’t do to have people think they were becoming friends.


	11. Chapter 11

The next day Madam Pomfrey declared Malfoy’s arm free of salamander fire and closed the wounds. Between classes and apprenticeship in the medical ward he could be found in the library with heavy healer tomes spread around him as he searched for a spell that would remove the Dark Mark. Once Hermione had asked him what he was looking for in an attempt to help, but he told her in no uncertain terms to kindly piss off.

Harry had gotten an earful about it when he returned from scrubbing cauldrons for Slughorn that evening. His fingers were raw from rasping against cast iron and all he wanted was a shower to remove the now familiar film of funk that marked the end of every apprenticeship session. Instead he had to listen to his friend rant about injustice of Draco Malfoy’s ingratitude towards the kindness of others.

So when Harry raced to the library the following Monday, he half expected Malfoy to send him away with a hex. Instead Malfoy looked up with nothing more antagonistic than a bit of surprise and maybe a hint of annoyance at being interrupted. Harry plopped down into the chair next to him, grinning in spite of himself.

“What in bloody hell are you smiling about, you cockeyed git?” Malfoy’s greeting just made Harry grin harder.

“I think I know how to remove your Dark Mark,” Harry blurted out, glancing around belatedly to make sure no one was there to overhear.

“No you don’t,” Malfoy sighed and closed the book in front of him. “I’ve read every resource there is on healing and I’m down to the esoteric historical stuff now. Nothing works.”

“No listen,” Harry insisted. “How did you get the mark? How did they put it on you?”

“I told you it’s a tattoo, essentially,” Malfoy pushed up his sleeve and exposed it for Harry to see up close. It was the first time Harry had had a chance to look at it since it had been mended. The sight of it, the shape itself made him uncomfortable. “They held me down and tapped a needle into my skin. Everywhere the black mark is, that’s a needle tap. Over and over, stabbing ink into my skin.” He pulled the sleeve down, rubbing his hand across it in memory of the pain. “They invoked a spell as they worked, enchanting the ink with the Dark Lord’s power.”

“Well the Dark-- Voldemort is dead,” Harry pointed out. “His power is gone. He enchanted lots of stuff while he was here, and it’s all normal now.” He touched the lightning bolt scar on his forehead. “Even my scar is fading,” he held up his forelock and showed the famous mark. It used to be red, visible from across the room. Now it was a silvery white, far less noticeable unless one knew to look. Malfoy stared at the scar, then tore his eyes away and gazed at the floor.

“What you’ve got left is just a tattoo,” Harry pointed at Draco’s concealed arm. “A plain old tattoo. No enchantment. You’ve been looking for a way to lift an enchanted mark, but that’s not what you need.”

He slapped a piece of glossy, colorful paper down on the table. Malfoy picked it up and inspected it, the confusing jumble of words and images obfuscating its meaning. The vertical groove between his eyebrows appeared again. “What are you on about, Potter?”

“Ron and Hermione and I went to London last weekend,” Harry explained, deftly retrieving the paper and pointing to the salient information. The text read “Laser Tattoo Removal.”

“What’s a laser?” Malfoy’s brow remained furrowed.

“It’s like,” Harry looked around for something in the wizarding world to use as a familiar analogy. “It’s like light, focused in a tight line, so tight it can burn things. It can even cut through things.”

“You want them to shoot burning light at it?” Malfoy looked at Harry like he was out of his mind. “I was kidding when I said I would consider cutting off my arm.”

“No no,” Harry was frustrated by his inability to explain. “Different lasers do different things. This one just burns the tattoo part off. Not the rest.”

“How do you know it works?” Malfoy was justifiably skeptical. Harry understood, it sounded like he was saying the muggles could work magic that wizards couldn’t.

“Look at the other side,” Harry flipped it over, showing three rows of before and after photos. “Some of these are really big and really black, but they’re totally gone afterwards.”

Malfoy frowned. He took the flyer from Harry’s fingers and inspected the testimonial photos again. They certainly looked good.

“The sodding photos don’t even move,” he said, handing it back and standing up. He waved his wand and swept his books over to the return cart. “If you think muggles can really do something like that, you’re mad.” He turned in a swirl of robes and departed, leaving Harry holding the flyer.


	12. Chapter 12

Draco couldn’t sleep. He lay in his bed, his left arm held aloft, black ink of his dark mark standing out in the moonlight. He could hear his lowerclassmen housemates trampling around in the hall as they raced from the common room to their shared sleeping chambers. He cast a wordless noise-dampening spell and the room became blissfully silent. He sighed and went back to studying his arm.

Potter had been so excited. So excited about something he could in no way benefit from. How could that be? He thought about the way the library doors had flown open, and that messy haired, owl-eyed prat had burst through with his face beaming like sunshine. His green eyes had sparkled as he handed over the colorful flyer, so sure it made sense.

Draco closed his eyes, picturing it again. The library doors flew open, and Harry Potter burst in smiling with his green eyes sparkling. He felt warmth in his groin as his member perked up. He pictured it again, Harry Potter bursting in, his hair a mess and his green eyes shining, his smile meant for no one but Draco.

He slipped his hand down under the blanket and gripped himself. He told himself to stop, to switch his thoughts to the fuzzy, amorphous, fantasy blowjob person. But he kept running the scene over and over in his head. His breath quickened as he pulled. The library door flew open-- He gasped aloud as he came, the orgasm jolting through his body out of nowhere. His eyes opened and he stared in amazement at the lofted fabric above his four poster bed, his vision swimming as the thrill of the climax suffused his body.

He cleaned up with a flick of his wand and rolled over. He gazed at the abandoned first aid supplies on his desk, lined up neatly with the rest of his fastidiously organized belongings. He grazed his fingertips across his dark mark, and wondered about lasers. Could the muggles really invent something so fantastic without magic? He drifted off to sleep and dreamt of sparkling green eyes.


	13. Chapter 13

Harry was sick of potions. He was sick of the class, and sick of Professor Slughorn’s chores. He had scrubbed every inch of the classroom, wiped down and relabeled dozens of items in the supply cabinets and closet, and he still felt like he struggled with his daily classwork. If this apprenticeship was meant to improve his performance in his chosen area, it was failing at that.

He stirred his cauldron, waiting for the slick, oily mixture to come to a boil. Next to him, Ron stirred with one hand, the other tied up in a sling. He’d run afoul of another one of Hagrid’s creatures, this time nearly losing the entire limb. Hermione had made lovey dovey noises over him and promised it would pay off after graduation when he could prove his competence in any magical creature program. All Ron knew was that she had forced him into taking the apprenticeship with Hagrid under the pretense of staying safe. So far he had a nearly gnawed off arm and Harry’s worst injuries were dried and cracked cuticles from washing his hand so much.

Harry didn’t enjoy Ron and Hermione’s bickering, or what passed for bickering when Ron refused to stand up for himself. But they were still his best friends and he still loved them like family. He was happy to see them happy, even if it meant he was left with more time to himself to ponder his own single status.

Ginny had told enough stories of their breakup to enough girlfriends that he’d been branded “undateable” by most of the Gryffindor upperclassmen. The only ones who still swooned over Harry the Hero were the younger girls, whose age difference made dating impossible. The Daily Prophet’s gossip column had declared him one of the wizarding world’s most eligible young bachelors when he turned eighteen, but the Hogwarts female population was not swayed.

In fact, Ginny had so powerfully lowered his esteem that he was certain even former Death Eater Draco Malfoy was the target of more secret crushes than himself. He’d heard the whispers, and girls do love a bad boy. He glanced over his shoulder at Malfoy’s workstation. It was neatly arranged, and his base had already come to a boil. He seemed to be struggling with measuring out the next two ingredients, but he was certainly a step ahead of Harry, who hadn’t yet managed to elicit so much as a bubble from his concoction.

But crikey he was handsome, could anyone blame the girls of Hogwarts for making doe-eyes at him? His lean frame was always languid and graceful, like the embodiment of the drawl he often spoke with. His pale skin was flawless, blemish-free in a way that could only be explained by magic. His short platinum hair was combed neatly to the side, above a broad, strong forehead, straight, regal nose and chin that Harry had always thought of as just slightly too pointy.

“Your pot’s boiling over, mate,” Ron hissed, snapping Harry back to the present.

He scrambled, lowering the flame beneath it and quickly measuring out his next ingredient. He fumbled the glass jar of liquefied corn smut, juggling it desperately as it threatened to leap from his hands and smash to the floor. It clattered across the tabletop before he managed to clap his hand down on top of it and stop its escape.

“Nice one, Potter,” Blaise Zabini spoke up from the front of the room. His classmates were all staring at him with amused smiles. Harry ducked his head, too afraid to glance over and see if Malfoy was watching. Not that he should care.

By the end of class he managed to brew a passable potion and Professor Slughorn let him leave without requesting any more chores. Heaving a sigh of relief he made his escape behind Ron and Hermione. tagging along behind the couple as seemed to be the new normal. As they reached the end of the corridor his books and parchments suddenly slipped out of his grasp like they had taken on a life of their own. His two best friends continued, too enthralled in each other’s company to notice his troubles. He bent to scoop everything up, wondering why he didn’t just shrink it all down to pocket size in the first place.

“You should have shrunk it down to pocket size,” a smooth voice came from above as a pair of feet appeared in his line of vision. He looked up and saw Malfoy standing over him with a sneer that reminded Harry of the old days.

“Did you do this, Malfoy?” Harry shot as he scooped his belongings into a pile.

“I need a moment of your time,” Malfoy stooped and helped bring the papers together into a neat stack. So much for the sneers of old days, old Malfoy would have never helped.

“You could have just said, hey Harry, wait up!” Harry pointed out.

“Don’t be silly, Potter,” Malfoy corrected him. They stood and Harry quickly shrunk everything and stuffed his belongings into his pocket.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” Harry glanced over his shoulder at the empty corridor beyond. Who knew where his friends were off to. It would probably be another evening on his own again.

As though reading his thoughts, Malfoy glanced up at the afternoon light coming through the narrow windows. “Up for a little one-on-one on the quidditch pitch?”

Harry pondered the offer, He and Malfoy had never flown one-on-one before, always saving their field time for the high-stakes games between Gryffindor and Slytherin. “Sure,” he said slowly, “But no stealing my moves.”

“I’d only steal your moves if I wanted to go slower,” Malfoy shot over his shoulder as he led the way down the stairs.

Harry smiled. This was a rivalry that couldn’t be blunted by war and grief. He licked his lips in anticipation, hoping they’d have the sky to themselves.

They did, in fact, have the entire pitch to themselves. Luckily for them, practice wasn’t in session for either of the other two houses in spite of the fact that the competitive season had begun. They stopped off in the equipment shed and retrieved their personal brooms from storage.

“Is that new?” Harry stepped over to admire the darkly gleaming burnished stick between Malfoy’s legs. He touched the handle, a thrill running up his spine. He could have sworn he heard Draco inhale sharply as he ran his hand down the broom handle. He stepped back, afraid of the feeling in his stomach.

“Brand new,” Malfoy said roughly. “I bought it right after--” he paused, a brief flicker of pain crossing his face. “After the war. To make me feel better. But I haven’t flown it until now.”

“Catch me if you can,” Harry wanted to distract him from his thoughts. Now wasn’t the time to think of dead parents. He kicked off, bolting for the clouds. Half a breath later Malfoy was gaining on him, and another half breath later he was passing by. The broom was bloody fast.

Harry pulled sharply into a hairpin turn and dove, swinging around the stands and back towards the shed. He jumped off as he touched the ground and ran for the ball box. He released the golden snitch and watched it speed away, then jumped back on his broom and chased the receding dot that was Draco Malfoy.

“The snitch!” Harry called as he caught up. Malfoy pulled up short and glanced back, his cheeks flushed pink with exhilaration. His face was glorious in the afternoon light, hair blown back by the wind and eyes alive with the thrill of sheer speed. “The snitch!” Harry called again, pointing back towards the pitch.

“Beat you to it,” Malfoy wheeled around and took off like a shot arrow. Harry spun and took off, too, catching up easily. They sped side by side, as they had so many times while competing for the house cup. But instead of the roar of the crowd in their ears, they had only the roar of the wind. Harry drew up next to Malfoy, bumping him playfully and trying to throw him off course. Malfoy took a risk and let go with one hand, reaching over and shoving at Harry’s shoulder. Harry threw his head back and laughed as he spun around once, righting himself without losing an ounce of speed.

Whatever magical substance Malfoy used to keep his perfectly coiffed hair in place had long given up the battle against the wind. His blond locks blew back, glistening like spun gold in the slanted sunlight. Harry refocused his attention on the other golden target, which hovered near the base of the Hufflepuff stands. Malfoy had spotted it, too.

They both dove, side by side, one moment ahead of the other, the next moment behind. They both reached out, their arms stretched to the maximum as they closed the gap between themselves and the snitch. And in a split second they both reached it, both hands clasping it at the same time. Harry’s hand was beneath, Malfoy’s hand wrapped around on top, their fingers entangled. Their brooms collided and they tumbled, rolling along the ground and landing in a heap. Harry realized his hand was empty and threw himself over. Malfoy’s eyes were still squeezed shut from impact, but the snitch was in his hand. Malfoy peeked one eyelid open and looked at his hand, then triumph spread across his face.

“Oh no you don’t,” Harry threw himself at the other boy, tackling him and grabbing at the snitch.

“Are you mad?” Malfoy kicked and rolled, trying to keep the golden ball out of reach. Harry laughed like a crazy person and scrambled his way up Malfoy’s body to get his hand on the snitch. They wrestled and grappled until they were both laughing too hard to continue, collapsing onto the pitch in feverish gasps for air.

“I win, Potter,” Malfoy gasped for breath, a goofy smile spread across his face.

“Not if I get it back,” Harry threw himself playfully at Malfoy again, but aborted the effort, sliding off of him with a laugh. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”

“Do what, exactly?” Draco rolled his head to the side and quirked his mouth at Harry.

“Well,” Harry suddenly felt silly, wondering how to answer without saying the wrong thing.

“Snape would have had a fit if he’d seen you do that during a game,” Malfoy dropped his head back and gazed up at the deepening sky. “Wrestling for the snitch? How unseemly,” he dropped his voice a register, his tone dripping with disdain. A serviceable impression of the venerable professor.

“Ten points from Gryffindor,” Harry added with a less serviceable impression.

Malfoy rocked up to a seated position. He gazed thoughtfully down at the snitch in his hand. “Why can’t I ever seem to do that during a game? You always get it first.”

“You just have to race me when I’m distracted enough,” Harry sat up, too.

“What’s distracting you today?” Malfoy asked quietly, still admiring the small golden ball.

Harry didn’t answer, staring at his hands silently. The sunlight glinted off of his glasses.

‘“So I was thinking about the tattoo removal place,” Malfoy began tentatively. “I should at least check it out before dismissing it.”

Harry’s smile returned. “Absolutely!” he exclaimed. “When do you want to go?”

“Tomorrow?” Malfoy shrugged. “I can take the whole morning.”

“Let’s do it,” Harry nodded enthusiastically. “But wait. You’ll need muggle money.”

“I have an exchanged reserve for emergencies,” Malfoy dismissed the need. “Do you know how much I’ll need?”

“I’m not sure, galleons to pounds always confuses me.”

“Then I’ll bring a lot.”


	14. Chapter 14

Draco waited nervously in the breezeway, waiting for Potter to arrive. He was dressed in what he hoped was an outfit muggles wouldn’t think out of the ordinary, but to be frank he wasn’t exactly in touch with the wider world of London. He wore a dark gray fitted muggle t-shirt, and the fact that t-shirts were an exclusively muggle garment led him to believe that it would fit right in. He also wore muggle jeans for the same reason. His shoes were standard black, nothing noteworthy unless one were particularly knowledgeable about the top leathersmith craftsmen of Italy. It cost a lot of money to be so tastefully subtle. His dark mark was exposed for the first time since he got it. But he figured he was on a mission to have the thing removed, it needed to be accessible. Besides, no one in muggle London would recognize and thus be fearful of the insignia.

Potter appeared at the end of the breezeway, thankfully alone. He wore a brown and blue plaid buttondown with blue jeans. It made sense, for some reason Draco associated plaid with muggles. Potter paused before him and eyed him appreciatively. Draco fought the urge to preen.

“Does this look okay? Will I fit in?” he asked somewhat nervously.

“You look great,” Potter smiled, blushing and then stammering a correction, “Great for fitting in in London I mean.”

There was that urge to preen again.

“Take my arm,” Potter extended his elbow. The Hogwarts staff had agreed to lift the ban on Apparating, just for the eighth year students who had passed training. Draco gripped Potter’s arm tightly, bracing himself for the uncomfortable vacuum sensation of instantaneous travel.

The air swirled around them and squeezed them out with a pop into a damp alley between buildings. Potter patted himself down and turned to check Draco. They nodded and set off, heading towards the bustling street ahead.

London was a cacophony of colors and sounds, and the street they’d landed on was packed with specialty shops and loud groups of chattering visitors. By accent it sounded like as many foreigners as locals were milling about, although Draco had difficulty placing many of the accents.

Potter led him confidently up the road, down a side street, then up another busy boulevard of shops. Draco marvelled as a red two-story bus covered in signs that shouted “tours!” rolled by. He’d heard of such a thing, but thanks to his father’s loathsome regard for the muggle world, he’d never had a chance to see it for himself. In eighteen years, he’d never crossed over from wizarding London to the world beyond.

Finally Potter stopped, staring up at a sign over a shopfront. It read “Laser Tattoo Removal, Lasik, and More.”

“Ready?” the Gryffindor boy smiled encouragingly. Draco nodded, not actually feeling ready at all.

They entered the shop, and immediately transitioned into a waiting room that was as quiet as the street outside had been loud. The waiting room was otherwise empty, with only a pleasantly plump strawberry blonde receptionist behind a curved wooden desk. She smiled and greeted them with a soft Irish lilt, an accent Draco was comfortable identifying. He let Potter speak for him, since he had no idea what to ask for.

“My friend would like to enquire about tattoo removal,” he gestured to Draco’s exposed arm.

The receptionist handed over a clipboard and a pen and asked them to fill out the information within. They retreated to a pair of seats near the door and inspected the form. It asked for things like address and phone number, which Draco couldn’t possibly provide, not having a phone and not residing at an address recognized by the sovereign state of England. Harry reached over and gently took the clipboard, filling out the information quickly before handing it back.

“Twelve Grimmauld Place, Islington. Where is this?” Draco peered at the unfamiliar details.

“Sirius Black’s house,” Potter said softly. “The post would never find it, but it’s close enough to a muggle address to suffice.” He looked up at Draco and shrugged, “He left it to me when he died. So technically it’s my house now, I guess.”

Draco nodded thoughtfully. “And the phone number?”

“Payphone out front,” Potter said ruefully. “Again, close enough.”

Draco took the clipboard up to the desk and handed it over hesitantly. He half expected the receptionist to recognize the falsified information and send them away. Instead she asked him to take a seat until the doctor was ready to call him back.

The two boys sat for several minutes, not speaking much, waiting for their turn in an otherwise empty queue. Finally a small dark-skinned man in a white coat appeared in the doorway and called his name. They both jumped to their feet and followed him into a small examination room with a large rolling cart and a funny bit of equipment sitting on top. The doctor asked Draco to sit on a padded reclining chair and rolled a short stool over for himself. Potter sat in a wheeled chair near the door.

The doctor’s accent was difficult for Draco to follow. It was something like what he’d overheard from Parvati and Padma Patil’s parents at the train platform every year, rolling and curling on itself roundly. But he gathered enough.

“Fortunately the tattoo is entirely composed of black ink,” the doctor explained, holding Draco’s pale arm in his hand. “Black ink is the easiest color to remove, and it fades much more quickly than other colors.” He inspected the mark for another moment and added, “I would expect somewhere between five and seven sessions to remove, possibly closer to five.”

“Five sessions?” Draco exclaimed. “All today?”

“No no,” the doctor chuckled. “One today, then you will go home and care for it for four to six weeks. Then you will come back for another session. One session every month or so until it is gone.”

“It’s going to take five bloody months?” Draco looked over at Potter, who seemed just as surprised. He counted the months in his head. It was October now. “I won’t be done until February. Maybe longer!”

“It’s better than keeping it for the rest of your life,” Potter offered helpfully, smiling as though pained.

“I guess so,” Draco’s shoulders fell, resigned. At the very least he should give one session a try. If the tattoo started to fade, then muggle magic would have wizard magic beat. Given the total lack of magical methods of removal, he’d be foolish not to even try it.

“How much?” he asked out of curiosity.

“£75 per session.”

Draco made a quick conversion in his head to Galleons. “Okay,” he agreed.

“Excellent,” the doctor smiled brightly and rose. “Deborah will be in to collect your payment, and then Violet will apply some anesthetic. It will help dull the sensation of the laser.” He exited and for the moment Draco and Potter were alone.

“The price is pretty dear, isn’t it?” Potter looked concerned.

“Potter,” Draco shook his head in mock disgust. He thought for a moment. “What did he mean by the sensation of the laser?”

“It burns the ink out of your skin,” Potter said thoughtfully. “It probably hurts a bit.”

“Hm,” Draco raised his chin in false bravado. “I can take pain.”

The door opened and the receptionist bustled in with paperwork and an invoice. Draco withdrew his muggle wallet and paid her the full amount for the day’s session. He signed the paperwork and she departed. A moment later a svelte brunette appeared, who explained that she was applying a topical anesthetic which should help dull the sting of the laser. She explained in calm, even tones that the laser would be uncomfortable, although not as uncomfortable as getting the tattoo in the first place. She offered to hold Draco’s free hand if it would help. Draco, being too proud to admit his fear of the unfamiliar procedure, turned down her offer.

The doctor reentered the room a bit later and passed pairs of heavy dark glasses around the room. He explained that the laser was too bright to be seen with unprotected eyes and warned them against removing the eyewear while the device was engaged. The nurse stood nearby for support as the doctor wheeled his stool over and readied the metal rod that Draco assumed contained the burning light. The doctor wiped the anesthetic cream away and entered a few settings into the bulky machine on the rolling cart. Potter sat rigidly by the door, fiddling with the fit of his goggles and clearly as nervous as Draco.

The machine fired up and the doctor began to trace the metal rod over the outline of the tattoo. Draco yelped and jumped in his seat, and the doctor immediately stopped. He seemed to have anticipated the boy’s reaction.

“Would you like me to hold your hand?” the nurse offered again.

“No, of course not,” Draco’s eyes welled up with tears. It had felt like being slapped with a rubber band a dozen times in an instant. He couldn’t imagine what it would feel like without the anesthetic.

Suddenly he felt someone grasp his right hand. He rolled his head over and Potter was sitting next to him, squeezing his fingers with reassuring pressure. His glasses were hanging from the collar of his shirt and the dark goggles made him look absolutely absurd. Of course, Draco probably looked equally absurd himself, but he preferred not to think about that. He squeezed Potter’s hand back and turned to face the doctor. He nodded grimly, gritting his teeth in anticipation of the pain.

The treatment only lasted for a few minutes. The doctor slapped his rubber band light machine across every bit of the tattoo, from edge to edge and all of the filled in spaces between. Draco clutched at Potter’s hand, and Potter returned the pressure in kind, murmuring encouragement as a sweat broke out on Draco’s forehead.

Finally the treatment was done and the nurse stepped forward to apply ointment and a large bandage across the affected area. Draco released Potter, who flexed his hand gingerly like it had been crushed.

“Don’t shower for the next day,” she instructed. “It may feel like a sunburn at first, and you may see some scabbing. Don’t pick the scabs,” she said firmly. Draco wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Put this ointment on it and keep it bandaged until it starts to heal over. Treat it like a wound.”

“It’s going to look worse before it looks better,” the doctor said brightly. “It may scab up and look bad, but over the next few weeks you’ll start to see some fading. After your next session you’ll really start to see changes.”

Draco thanked him, then thanked the nurse. He wasn’t used to thanking the help, but his father had always told him to be kind to healers, because you never know when you’ll need one on your side. He rose and relinquished his dark goggles, hoping he didn’t have unsightly rings around his eyes. Potter rose and reseated his glasses across the bridge of his nose. Draco scheduled another appointment for the second week of November and they departed.

They emerged onto the noisy street, the bright hustle and bustle something of a shock after the quiet solitude of the doctor’s office.

“Are you hungry?” Potter asked suddenly.

“A bit,” Draco felt like a bite to eat would settle his jumbled nerves.

“There’s a curry place down here that’s supposed to be smashing,” Harry stepped off of the office stoop and headed down the road. Draco followed, questions on his lips that couldn’t pass, thanks to the noise of the unending traffic.

After a few blocks Potter finally led Draco into a small, crowded restaurant and they procured a seat at a tiny table near the back. The diner was run by more dark-skinned people who reminded Draco of the Patils. Maybe they ran all of the businesses in this part of London. He asked Potter as much. Potter had the nerve to look amused by Draco’s ignorance.

“They’re from India, most likely,” Potter explained. “This is an Indian restaurant. It’s a coincidence that the doctor was Indian, too.”

“Oh,” Draco sat back in his chair and tried to make sense of the menu. “I thought maybe they owned this part of town.”

“Shh,” Potter leaned forward and tried to hush him. “Don’t say something like that.”

“Is it rude?” Draco’s eyebrows rose, fighting back the reflexive urge to ask Potter who he thought he was to hush him in that way.

“Yes,” Potter looked around to make sure no one had overheard. “Just be nice.”

“That would be tremendously unlike me,” Draco drawled in reply, but he smiled to take the edge off of his words. Potter adjusted his glasses nervously and smiled back. He ducked behind his menu and studied it carefully.

Draco couldn’t make heads nor tails of the menu so he studied Potter instead. His black hair was as messy as ever, although he’d at least trimmed it back to a length where it looked intentionally disheveled rather than neglected. His wire rimmed glasses were round as always, as much a part of him as his emerald green eyes. He chewed his lower lip absentmindedly as he concentrated on the card in front of him, endearingly boyish in his disarmed posture.

He suddenly looked up and caught Draco looking at him. He smiled broadly, openly and sincerely. Draco felt his blood rush to his cheeks.

“Do you know what you want?” Potter didn’t seem to notice the blush.

“No,” Draco glanced down at the card. “I don’t know what any of this is.”

“Have you never had curry?” Potter sounded amazed.

“Never heard of it,” Draco leaned back casually, trying to put on an air of someone who thought curry was the least important thing in the world. He was a bit annoyed by the situation. He was worldly. He had travelled all over with his family, stayed in dozens of luxury wizard resorts in countries across the map. So he hadn’t ventured out to the muggle world before, so what? He didn’t appreciate feeling like a bumpkin in a world he didn’t understand.

Potter seemed to pick up on his annoyance. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll order something. You’ll love it.”

And as much as Draco hated to admit it, he was right. The food was brilliant, and he couldn’t get enough of the complementary naan bread. Even the tea was excellent. At the end of the meal Potter laid out a few pound notes for the waitress before Draco could reach for his wallet. He marveled at the gesture, having never had anyone pick up the check for him before.

They stayed a bit longer, full stomachs digesting as they enjoyed a last cup of tea before heading back to Hogwarts. The restaurant stayed busy the whole time, obviously enjoying a good reputation amongst the locals. Draco admitted to himself that between the tattoo removal machine and the Indian food, he’d discovered two reasons not to hate the muggle world. It was a start.

“So I guess I’ll just have to see how this goes over the next few weeks,” Draco looked down at his arm and the bandage covering his Dark Mark. “It’s at least worth doing a second session. If it’s not improved by December I’ll stop trying.”

“It will improve,” Potter said confidently.

“You’re so sure?” Draco raised a dubious eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Potter nodded.

“We’ll see if you’re right,” Draco said softly, flexing his hand and looking down at the bandage again. “Thank you for bringing me here,” he said belatedly, the expression of gratitude unfamiliar and strange on his tongue. He wasn’t sure why he said it, just that suddenly he wanted to. “Thanks for all of it,” he struggled to say what he really wanted to say. “Thank you for holding my hand.”

Potter was silent for a moment, watching Draco’s face. Finally he leaned across the table and laid his hand over Draco’s. He smiled, “Anytime.”


	15. Chapter 15

Harry was late for quidditch practice when they returned. He barely said goodbye before bolting for the pitch, knowing Seamus would scold him in front of the rest of the team, if only to show he didn’t play favorites. Ron’s eyes were bugging out of his head as Harry tore past them and ran straight to the shed to put on his gear. He yanked his broom off of the rack and headed straight outside, then mounted and kicked off.

Seamus did indeed have some choice words for him, but a few promises not to let it happen again seemed to help. They had a match against Ravenclaw coming up and they needed to buckle down and practice in order to be ready.

The beaters ran drills against the chasers, and Harry lobbed balls at Ron to test his keeper skills. Then he darted around his teammates at top speed as they played, so they could practice not being distracted by the seekers. They finally broke two hours later and packed up their equipment in the shed. Harry was glad for the exertion, and more glad that he’d thought to have a good meal before expending so much energy.

He and Ron headed up the hill back to the school, and he half-listened as his friend rambled on about Hagrid’s circus of unimaginable animals in the Forbidden Forest. Ron was learning a lot, and in spite of himself he seemed to be enjoying the work. Harry hated to admit it, but it seemed less and less likely that Ron would join him in Auror training. Their plan to stick together after graduation might not be such a sure thing.

Harry grabbed supper a bit later, just a quick in and out and back to his room for some studying. His herbology class was his worst course this year, and unfortunately it took up a large portion of the N.E.W.T exam. If he didn’t master the material, his whole score would be in jeopardy. Once again he fell asleep at his desk and woke late, forcing him to run to class in a rumpled jumble of arms and legs and robes and books.

He arrived as the door was closing and collapsed into a desk near the wall. He scrambled through his materials for his herbology homework, the parchment he’d stayed up so late completing. It was gone. He flipped through his book and his stack of parchments again. How could it be gone? He’d scooped everything up and it had been on top. It had to be here!

Suddenly a crinkly sound rasped by his ear. He whipped his head around and saw his homework levitating next to his head, bobbing up and down in the air. He snatched it and slumped down in his seat in relief, heart pounding with anxiety. He looked up belatedly, glancing around to see which of his classmates had come to his rescue.

Malfoy was seated on the riser behind him. His wand was in his hand and his eyebrow was raised in a gentle chiding expression. Harry smiled weakly and nodded his thanks, self conscious that the blond Slytherin was seeing him so disheveled. He felt like a mess, unshowered and rumpled like a sack of old rags. He’d never had a reputation for fastidiousness, but he didn’t like being caught in total disarray.

After class Malfoy drifted gracefully from the room without a word. Harry wondered if he’d had any troubles with the adhesive muggle bandages the tattoo removal place had sent him home with. He supposed not, otherwise he was sure a green spark would have summoned him for help.

The next few days were busier than Harry would have liked. If it wasn’t homework, it was practice, and if it wasn’t practice, it was Slughorn. He dragged himself to bed each night, too exhausted to even wank. Sometimes he managed to squeeze one out in the shower before class, but it was hard to get it done when there was a long line of Gryffindor boys waiting for one of the stalls to open up. He was starting to feel a bit pent up, wishing for a break so he could tend to his own needs for once.

The Ravenclaw match was Saturday, and the stands were packed with students and their families. One side of the stands was packed with a red and gold throng, and the other side was a riot of blue and bronze. Hufflepuff and Slytherin students either joined the side they preferred or stuck to their own stands, preferring to observe rather than rally.

Harry had managed a good night’s sleep and a good morning wank, so his head was clear and his energy was high. The teams kicked off and took to the sky, and Harry circled above the jostling chasers and beaters. A bludger whizzed past his ear, but he expertly dodged the familiar hazard. He spiralled down a bit lower, scanning the ground for a glint of gold. The Ravenclaw stands went mad as one of their chasers put the quaffle past Ron. Harry gritted his teeth, promising silently to cuff Ron across the back of the head for that.

There! He saw a flash of gold whiz past one of the Ravenclaw goal hoops. He was off like a shot. Of course, the Ravenclaw seeker’s strategy had differed a bit from Harry’s. Instead of watching for the snitch, she had spent her time watching Harry, knowing he would lead her straight to it. He saw her scan the area below to triangulate the location of the golden ball, and then she was off like a shot, too. She had a slight advantage, having been closer to to goals at the moment Harry spotted it. No matter, Harry didn’t play to lose. He leaned forward and put on a burst of speed, blasting past her with enough tail wind to blow her off course.

The snitch didn’t give up so easily, zipping and dodging and fleeing to the other end of the field. Harry pulled out of his dive and swung around, heading back towards Ron as the golden ball whizzed past him. Ron ducked, and in his moment of distraction Ravenclaw scored again.

“Stay focused,” Harry snapped as he blitzed by his friend, eyes on the prize. The snitch shot straight up into the air and stopped, hovering directly in front of the Slytherin stands. The small group of green and silver clad students did not cheer Harry’s approach; their rivalry with Gryffindor made them natural Ravenclaw allies. A few held flags of blue and bronze, and their excited stares over Harry’s shoulder told him the other seeker was on his tail. Up ahead one Slytherin boy watched Harry alone. He was taller than most of the others, older than the majority of his housemates. His blond hair was neatly styled, not a strand out of place, even in the windy high stands. He stared directly at Harry as he tore towards the bleachers with his hand reaching out for snitch. The Slytherin boy somberly raised a red and gold flag in a show of traitorous support for a Gryffindor win.

Harry grinned, and caught sight of the Ravenclaw seeker’s outstretched hand as she closed the gap. With bolstered confidence and practiced skill he darted at full speed past his target, snatching the snitch out of the air with deft accuracy. The referee blew the whistle and called the game as the announcer declared Harry the winning seeker. Victory for Gryffindor. The stands erupted as students cheered and crowed. Harry took a lap and soaked in the excitement, enjoying the thrill of the win.

It had been a close one. Ravenclaw’s keeper was especially good this year, and he hadn’t let a single goal through. Ron, on the other hand, had hardly blocked a pass, letting the opposing team rack up an impressive 100 points. It would have only taken a few more goals for the snitch to have ended the game with a Gryffindor loss. Seamus, as team captain, made that fact abundantly clear in the changing room after the game. He berated Ron for his performance and demanded better focus and more practice. Ron was understandably ashamed, and spent the after-game victory party down at the lake drinking himself into a quiet stupor under a tree.

Harry loved quidditch victory parties. The students who were of age were permitted to drink, and those who weren’t usually managed to sneak enough sips to enjoy themselves thoroughly, too. There was usually dancing and cheering and laughing, and as the night wore on couples partnered up for some good old fashioned snogging. Hermione held Ron’s head in her lap and soothed his wounded pride. Harry had no place at their pity party, so he circulated amongst the merry makers who lined the docks and splashed along the shoreline. He wasn’t interested in getting wet, now that October had brought a chill to the nighttime air. He retreated from the water and found a quiet place between a pair of nightflowering trees.

“I would have caught it sooner,” a familiar voice at his back made Harry smile.

“I guess you'll have to prove that at our next match,” He turned and met Malfoy’s gray eyes. The Slytherin boy was dressed in a black jacket and he had a green and silver scarf wrapped around his neck.

His judgement a little fuzzy after a few drinks, Harry darted his hand out and snagged the scarf, tugging it to draw Malfoy closer. Malfoy was caught off balance and took two steps forward. He stopped, reaching up and yanking his scarf out of Harry’s grasp. He gave Harry a warning look, then glanced around to see if any of their classmates had noticed. But the revelers were in their own world, caterwauling at the lake’s edge as an enormous water fight broke out.

“The Weasel was off his mark tonight,” Malfoy remarked. “You can bet we’ll be discussing that at our next practice.”

“He’ll be better focused next time,” Harry said defensively.

“What’s on his mind?” Malfoy asked, reaching up and straightening his scarf.

“I don’t know,” Harry glanced over at his two best friends, who were now in full repose, legs and arms entangled and active. “We don’t talk much these days.”

“Probably hard to talk when your mouth is full of Granger’s tongue,” Malfoy said dryly, following Harry’s eyes.

“At least it’s full of someone’s tongue,” Harry sighed, glancing back at the lake, where some students were gleefully shedding their soaked clothing.

“Been a while?” Malfoy asked the obvious.

“A bit.”

“I noticed the Weasley girl has been making herself available to anyone who will notice,” Malfoy said delicately.

“It’s not her fault,” Harry said sadly. “She’s been trying to get back at me since we broke up this summer. Show me she doesn’t need me.”

“That’s a bit self-centered,” Malfoy said. “Maybe she just likes getting around.”

“Not Ginny,” Harry shook his head. “She’s a good girl. I shouldn’t have gone with her in the first place.”

“She’s looking to change that reputation,” Malfoy inclined his head, pointing his chin towards the dock where several students had stripped to their knickers. Ginny had her arms wrapped around a Hufflepuff boy in the class behind hers. “She’s even approaching the less reputable boys these days,” he added. “Bringing home a Death Eater, that ought to get Daddy’s attention.”

“You?” Harry turned and narrowed his eyes in disbelief. “She hates you.”

“That no longer seems to be a barrier for her,” Malfoy scratched his nose and shrugged.

Harry turned back and watched his ex-girlfriend’s exposed frolicking. If Ron didn’t have his face buried in Hermione’s he might have run over and covered her up, knocking out a few of the handier boys in the process. But it wasn’t Harry’s place to intervene. In fact it might make things worse.

And what was she doing coming on to Draco Malfoy? His reputation hadn’t recovered so fully as to make him a viable dating prospect. Her parents, namely her father, would never approve. Harry’s eyes flashed, feeling a rush of jealousy. Ginny and Malfoy? Over his dead body. He turned back to say as much, but he was alone. Malfoy had departed without so much as a goodnight.

Harry’s face burned hotter, drink adding to his temper. Who did he think he was? What if he’d agreed to Ginny’s come-on? What if Harry had seen them, lip-locked and humping passionately? What would he have done? His heart seethed with jealousy and he decided to call it a night. He stalked angrily back to the castle, promising himself that he would ensure the vision of Ginny and Malfoy together would never be a reality.


	16. Chapter 16

Draco watched Potter stomp off, and could tell the Gryffindor boy was angry. He wasn’t sure why he had confessed the Weasley’s girl come-on. Nothing would have come of it, so there wasn’t really any reason to discuss it. But he supposed he was interested in seeing how Potter would react.

And Potter’s reaction was certainly confusing. He detected a bit of jealousy, but he also understood that Potter was the one who had broken it off with the ginger girl, not the other way around. He didn’t want her, but it also sounded like he didn’t want her to have anyone else. Unless that wasn’t it, and it was just Draco who he didn’t want to see her with. He could understand that. They’d been enemies for so long, he couldn’t imagine Potter would want to see him hooking up with his ex. Not that it would happen, of course. The Weasley girl was no more appealing to him than the Weasel himself. He’d sooner snog a boggart.

Potter’s temper was improved the next day in class, although he didn’t go out of his way to speak to Draco or even make eye contact. It wasn’t really the silent treatment, since they weren’t exactly in the habit of chatting much in class anyway. But the little things, the small gestures and quick exchanges and fleeting glances were gone. And that was disappointing.

He told himself that they were never really friends anyway. Saint Potter had helped him out of Gryffindorish obligation to help the needy. He’d swooped in to assist with Draco’s injury and solve his Dark Mark quest. And now that it was in the process of being resolved he could move on to the next mystery.

It was better this way, he told himself when he laid in bed at night, touching the gross scabbed tattoo and grimacing at the bubbly texture. They had gotten too close, and the universe simply couldn’t sustain a Malfoy-Potter friendship. It would throw everything out of whack and it would wreck his reputation as the baddest boy in school. If that went out the window, before he knew it he’d have people expecting things of him rather than doing things for him.

He walked the halls between classes, telling himself that being a brooding loner had its advantages. The underclassmen were well scared of him, and his teachers saw his no-nonsense approach to his studies as a sign of maturity. Madam Pomfrey had started trusting him with healing the most superficial injuries, although always under supervision. He was learning to hear patients’ needs and understand their pain without feeling weak.  
It was exhilarating, doing something well without his father telling him to let someone beneath him do the work. Or without his mother undermining his confidence with subtle digs. His chest tightened when thoughts like that flitted through his mind. The guilt of doing well without them mixed with his grief over their deaths. He was orphaned, and while the reality was that he had a brighter future without his parents, he was grief-stricken over the lost fantasy of ever winning them back from the Dark Lord’s influence.

He was wandering the corridors one night, pondering the war between pride and guilt when a figure moving in the shadows startled him out of his reverie. He glanced up and peered into the darkness. The moon was full, spilling silvery light through the high windows in regular intervals. He cast a Lumos spell and pointed the light at the dark alcove between two suits of armor. Green eyes squinted back.

“Put that out, Malfoy,” Potter grumbled, shielding his eyes.

“What are you doing lurking in the shadows?” Draco obliged, extinguishing the light.

“I could ask you the same,” Potter stepped out into the moonlight.

“Just out for a stroll,” Draco said casually, stowing his wand. “It’s good for thinking.”

“And what are you thinking about?” Potter’s tone wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t friendly either.

Draco looked up at the silver moon, wondering whether to be honest or evasive. He chose honesty. “My parents.”

“Oh,” Potter’s tone softened and his eyes dropped to the floor.

“And you?”

“Also strolling and thinking,” Potter said, his eyes still averted.

“About?”

Potter didn’t respond at first. Finally he spoke in a voice that was barely a whisper. “You.”

Draco almost asked him to repeat himself. Instead he waited, hoping Potter would elaborate.

“I’m sorry I got angry at you,” Potter said in a rush. “The other night at the quidditch party. You said Ginny hit on you and I got angry.”

“I noticed,” Draco had spent a lot of time thinking about that night, too. He could still feel the tug on his scarf.

“I was just jealous,” Harry continued. “And then you left and I didn’t know how to talk to you. Or say I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to say you’re sorry,” Draco shook his head. “I shouldn’t have said anything. There wasn’t anything you could do about it. And it wasn’t going to happen anyway.”

“No?” Potter looked up, his eyes gleaming.

“No, I’m not interested in her,” Draco said firmly.

Potter thought about that for a moment, his fingers worrying his lower lip. Finally he looked up and smiled. “Good.”

“Good,” Draco replied. “So are we...”

“Friends?” Harry supplied. They looked at each other in bewilderment. “I guess we are.”

“Will wonders never cease,” Draco said with a touch of disbelief in his voice.

“Thanks for talking about it,” Harry took an awkward step forward and held out his hand.

Draco grasped his hand in his and shook it firmly. They both laughed self-consciously, then dropped the grip and gestured meaninglessly down the corridor, as though indicating opposite directions of travel. Laughing awkwardly again they bid each other goodnight and went their own ways.

And for the first time in several nights Draco fell asleep once again with a smile on his lips.


	17. Chapter 17

The Halloween masquerade ball was approaching and Harry was full of ideas. McGonagall had impressed upon the eighth-year students that the upperclassmen were expected to participate in spite of their well-practiced teenage cynicism. Much time was spent discussing costume ideas, from the mundane to the spectacular sort that would require advanced magic.

And while discussing their options was fine, sharing their final decisions was not. There was a shared sense of secrecy around their costume selections, and everyone hoped to sweep into the Great Hall to the surprise and delight of the other attendees.

Harry knew what he wanted to do for his costume, but it was risky. It would take some magic, and it would take some acting. And he might not be able to pull it off. He kept his idea to himself, not even giving in when Hermione needled him for hints. She saw no need to conceal her costume idea from Ron and Harry, reminding them both that friends don’t keep secrets. Harry refused to crack.

“The dress underneath is totally normal,” Hermione explained as they sat near the fire in the common room. “Actually quite plain. But the illusion of the celestial sphere whirling around it with all of the planets and heavenly bodies in motion,” her eyes took on a faraway glaze, imagining the spectacle. “Honestly, have you ever seen anyone dressed as the whole universe before? It will be grand.”

“You’ll look brilliant,” Ron agreed, dropping a kiss onto the top of her head.

“Have you seen what Ron has worked up for his Hagrid costume?” Hermione asked eagerly.

“No,” Harry shook his head at the absurd idea.

“It’s not even magical,” Ron said modestly. “Just a bushy black wig and a bushy black beard and some stilts.”

“When he sees you he’ll laugh hard enough to shake the rafters,” Hermione insisted. “It’s the voice that makes it. Ron has perfected his Hagrid imitation and he’s going to do it all night.”

“You’ll be a hit,” Harry agreed.

“You have to tell us what you’re doing. I’ll bet it’s special,” Hermione wheedled, trying once again to pry it out of him.

“It really doesn’t make sense to keep it from us,” Ron reminded him.

“Okay fine,” Harry took a breath. “I’m going as Draco Malfoy.”

His friends looked at him like he’d sprouted a second head. “Why would you do that?” Ron didn’t try to conceal his dismay.

“It will be hilarious,” Harry insisted. “I have a little sack of fake Galleons and I’m going to pay people around me to do my bidding.”

“That’s actually pretty funny,” Hermione agreed. “Does he know?”

“No,” Harry said nervously. “I think he’ll think it’s funny. But he might not.”

Ron and Hermione exchanged a look. They didn’t know the extent of Harry and Malfoy’s interaction, but they knew the two boys had become somewhat friendly lately. Everyone knew. The infamous rivalry was dead, and no one really knew how to process the change.

“Let’s hope he has a sense of humor about it,” Hermione said. “Otherwise you might have to dodge a curse.”

“Yeah, better wear running shoes,” Ron said morosely.

Harry really wasn’t sure it would go well. It seemed like a great idea. And since it had become so obvious to everyone that he and Malfoy were no longer enemies, it seemed like the right way to put it out in the open so no one felt like they had to whisper about it. If it went well, Malfoy would have a laugh and realize it was all in good fun,. If it went poorly, Malfoy might never speak to him again. But he had to believe it wouldn’t go poorly.

The night of the ball Harry assembled his costume. He wore a black fitted shirt and black slacks. He slipped a black suit jacket over his shoulders and wrapped a green and gray scarf he’d found in Hogsmeade around his shoulders. Next he worked a series of spells to lighten his hair, a temporary set of charms that would be lifted the next day. When he’d managed to raise the color all the way to platinum blond he stopped. It wasn’t a great color on him, but it was right on point for the costume.

Next he added sticky product to the wild mess and coaxed his hair into shape. He combed and combed, pushing it until it laid over to the side. He cast another charm to hold it into place. His hair wasn’t used to being told what to do; it was the most time consuming part of the costume. Lastly he cast an invisibility spell on his glasses, which hid them from sight but still permitted him to see clearly.

It was a surprisingly good likeness.

He stepped up to the mirror and inspected himself head to toe. The colors and styles were correct, but he was missing something. He drew himself up to his full height and squared his shoulders. He furrowed his brow and affected a mildly disapproving gaze. He relaxed his body and shifted his weight languidly to one leg. There, that was better. The secret, he realized, was less about looking like Malfoy, which he certainly couldn’t do convincingly enough, and more about striking the right attitude.

A flurry of taps at his door told him Hermione and Ron were ready. He unlocked it and cracked it open, making sure none of their housemates were outside. The underclassmen had long since cleared out, and were already gathered in the Great Hall, stuffing their faces with Halloween goodies and dancing to lively music.

“Merlin, look at you!” Ron ducked his head to clear the doorway and stepped in on his stilts. He looked absolutely absurd, all height and fake hair, none of the mass that truly identified Hagrid in a crowd.

“Your hair!” Hermione squealed, entering behind Ron, her dress a whirling incandescent riot of stars and planetary objects.

“How do I look? Can I pull it off?” Harry affected the Malfoy posture again and sneered at them disdainfully.

“I can’t believe you’re going through with it,” Ron looked down at him in amazement. “He’s going to murder you.”

“No he won’t,” Hermione stepped around Harry to get a view from all angles. As she moved comets sparked off of her dress, spiraling and fizzling like tiny fireworks. “Actually, he might.”

“Let’s hope not,” Harry’s stomach turned flips. He suddenly thought this wasn’t such a good idea. He wondered if he should call it off.

“Don’t you dare change your mind,” Ron recognized the look on his face. He seized Harry’s shoulder and propelled him out of the room. “Let’s go.”

They made their way carefully down from the tower, slower than usual due to Ron’s relative inexperience with stilts. Hermione’s dress was mesmerizing, and a couple of ghosts actually stumbled through walls while hypnotized by the undulating whirl of stars. They could hear the ball before reaching the doors, full of laughter and music and student voices.

The doors swung open and Ron entered, sending up a cheer of delight as the crowd recognized his costume. He growled out a few thickly accented phrases, kicking off a flurry of laughter. Hagrid himself came down from the head table and grabbed Ron up in a bear hug. He thumped his back until he nearly toppled over. He posed with his costumed doppelganger and beamed proudly.

Hermione entered next, and the girls in the hall all breathed a sigh of envy as she twirled to show off the multicolored spin of solar systems and binary stars. A small smattering of applause showed appreciation for the skill, but to be honest Ron’s costume was a hard act to follow.

It was Harry’s turn. He conjured a quick mirror spell and checked his appearance. He was spot on. He dissolved the mirror and stowed his wand away, lifted his chin and checked his pockets for the fake galleon coins. Taking a breath he strode through the doors and raised an eyebrow, gazing disdainfully around at the crowd. The students fell silent, gobsmacked over the sight.

“Well now,” Harry spoke loudly, in his best impression of Malfoy’s accent and tone. “Someone fetch me a drink before I buy out this whole party.” He dug into his pocket and tossed a few of the false coins into the crowd.

The silence shattered in an explosion of applause and laughter. The students hooted and hollered, rushing forward and bracing him further into the hall. Shining faces surrounded him, ecstatic over the playful impression and all wanting him to say more in Malfoy’s voice. If he were to judge the success of the costume by crowd reaction alone, he would say he’d done a smashingly good job.

Just then the Great Hall doors smashed open with an enormous clatter. Everyone jumped and hushed, startled into silence. A voice pealed across the open space.

“Where’s the snitch?” the voice shouted with an edge of hysteria. “I’ve got it!” A boy with dark messy hair, glasses, and dressed head to toe in red and gold Gryffindor quidditch gear bolted into the hall. He skidded to a halt in the middle of the crowd and swung a large butterfly net with a large, oversized golden snitch snared inside the interlocking twine. He held it aloft triumphantly, his face beaming. A large red lightning bolt zig-zagged across his forehead, now visible to everyone. The torches that lined the hall glinted off of his glasses, setting off sparkles in his gray eyes.

Once again the crowd burst into cheers. Harry’s mouth dropped open at the sight, too stunned to join the celebration that thundered throughout the room. The students surged again, this time surrounding the boy in the Harry Potter costume, grasping his arms and gushing with appreciation.

“He outdid you,” Ron said above Harry’s head.

“You have to hand to Malfoy,” Hermione agreed. “He knows how to make an entrance.”

Sensing the opportunity for a confrontation, the students bore Malfoy-Potter towards Potter-Malfoy. The two boys stared at each other, mouths twisted as they both tried to hold back their laughter. Harry slipped his wand out of his holster and struck a comically exaggerated attack pose. Malfoy immediately did the same, one arm held awkwardly above his head as though for balance. They pointed and jabbed and cast harmless gibberish spells in a ridiculous duel.

The crowd cheered again, loving the mock standoff. After a moment Harry and Malfoy broke the pose and thanked the crowd, bowing as though the whole thing had been planned. They each stowed their wands and approached each other as the throng dispersed. The two boys smirked at each other in a blend of amusement and disbelief.

“And I was worried you’d be cross with me,” Harry laughed, throwing his arms up in surrender.

“I wasn’t worried,” Malfoy shrugged, his languid posture breaking the Potter-esque illusion. “Although I thought you might not like the scar.”

“You wouldn’t be me without it,” Harry grinned at the absurdity of his statement.

The crowd surged again and the two boys were drawn further into the hall, forced by their coincidental costumes to remain paired up as student after student approached to have their picture taken with the reversed duo. As the event reached its peak Headmistress McGonagall stood up from the head table and announced awards for the array of costumed students in attendance. She awarded house points for most creative, most skilled, funniest, scariest, and most colorful.

“Lastly,” her voice rang out clearly as the celebrations over house points spread throughout the assembly, “the award for best overall costume is a tie. Fifty points for Gryffindor and fifty points to Slytherin for the outstanding Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy costumes.” More cheers and more house celebrations followed, as the crowd summarily agreed with her decision.

Hugs, handshakes, and more photography followed as everyone wanted a chance to tell Harry and Malfoy how much they enjoyed their efforts. Harry handed out fake galleons to anyone who responded with appropriate deference to his commanding tone. Malfoy ranted like a madman, pretending to hallucinate golden snitches behind every partygoer. It was more exhausting than Harry had anticipated.

As the celebration wound down Malfoy plucked his sleeve and nodded in the direction of the exit. They slipped out of the Great Hall and through the enormous front gate. They dashed across the courtyard to the steps that led down to the lake. Malfoy dodged to the left, tucking behind the courtyard wall and finding a seat along the low brick steps.

“I couldn’t take another minute of that,” Malfoy slumped over with exhaustion. He went to rub his eyes and bumped his large round glasses.

“It was fun, though,” Harry’s cheeks were sore from smiling so much.

“Blond looks terrible on you,” Malfoy shook his head in mock disgust. “How did you manage to get that bird’s nest you call hair to stay put all night?”

“Lots of magic,” Harry admitted.

“I’ll bet,” Malfoy nodded, resting his elbows on his knees. “I guess my reputation is well and truly ruined now. Everyone will think they can joke around with me.”

“You could say I hexed you and you didn’t know what you were doing,” Harry teased.

“I might just do that,” Malfoy smiled. He removed the glasses from his face and tucked them into his pocket.

“Where did you get the quidditch kit?” Harry asked.

“Broke into the equipment shed,” Malfoy said as though it should be obvious.

“I had to buy all of this,” Harry tugged at his ensemble.

“Black goes with anything,” Malfoy said dismissively. “You needed something respectable in your wardrobe.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, gazing at the glinting surface of the lake in the distance.

“I guess people will figure we’re friends now,” Harry said quietly.

“I guess so,” Malfoy looked down at his clasped hands. His long, slender fingers were tightly intertwined, pale skin luminescent in the moonlight.

“Your next appointment is coming up.”

“Next Wednesday,” Malfoy nodded.

“Do you need me to come?” Harry asked tentatively.

“Not if you don’t want to,” Malfoy sat up, his face doubtful.

“I don’t mind.”

“Then you should come,” Malfoy said quickly. “I have no idea how to get there.”

“It’s easy,” Harry smiled. “But I was hoping you’d want me to come. There’s a Caribbean restaurant near there that I’ve heard is smashing. Their jerk chicken is supposed to be the best around.”

“What in bloody blazes is jerk chicken?” Malfoy looked so offended by the name that Harry couldn’t help but laugh. “Honestly, Potter. Jerk Chicken?”

“It’s like a bunch of spices,” Harry explained,using his hands. “it’s a dry rubbed meat.”

“Dry rubbed meat,” Malfoy repeated, his mouth twitching and his eyebrows raising suggestively. “I can think of better ways to do it.”

Harry’s face flushed beet red as he caught the double entendre. Malfoy tossed his head back and laughed uproariously, the loudest and longest laugh Harry had ever heard from his former rival. He ducked and scratched his head self-consciously, unable to think of a way to correct his words without making it worse. Malfoy laughed until he couldn’t breathe, rocking back and forth on the brick steps. Finally he gasped and caught his breath, wiping tears from his eyes.

“Okay we can go for your wanky chicken if you want to,” Malfoy laughed again.

Harry’s cheeks burned deeply. “Laugh all you want but I’ll bet you end up liking my wanky chicken.”

Malfoy practically screamed with laughter. Harry buried his face in his hands.


	18. Chapter 18

It was late when Draco descended the steps to Slytherin house. He’d lost his net and snitch props somewhere in the Great Hall, but they had served their purpose and he no longer needed them. He waved a tired hand at the entrance and spoke the password, then dragged himself through to the common room. Blaise was holding court in his regal muggle king’s costume, a sixth year girl on one arm and a seventh year girl on the other. His hands were busy.

Draco ducked his head and passed them by, making a direct path to his private room. As he reached his door and unlocked the bolt, someone tackled him from behind.

“Sod off!” he forced his hands up and pushed his attacker off of his back. Pansy Parkinson stepped back, a hungry look in her eyes. “What are you on about, Pansy?”

She stepped forward aggressively and wrapped her arms around his neck, swishing her hips suggestively and butting her nose against his. Her sexy cat costume had gotten her sent back to her room for additional coverage, but now that she had returned from the dance she had stripped down the excess to the minimum coverage she’d originally envisioned.

“Harry Potter,” she purred, winking.

“Yes yes,” Draco rolled his eyes, extracting himself from her grip. She eluded his hands and immediately enveloped him again. She stood on tiptoes and pressed her mouth up against his, pushing her tongue deep. He froze, not sure whether to push her away or accept her come-on. She broke the kiss with a sloppy slurp.

“Keep the costume on,” she whispered, pushing him back against the door and fumbling for the knob. He assisted, letting them both in and closing the door behind them.

“Potter?” Draco smirked. “You? Really?”

“Why not?” Pansy looked insulted. “I’m not so house loyal that I wouldn’t notice the sexiest man in Hogwarts.”

“I thought I retained that title,” Draco said haughtily, suddenly irritated by her single-mindedness.

“Of course you do, sweet baby,” Pansy pulled his head down to rest on her cleavage. “I meant other than you.”

“That’s better,” he pushed back again and regarded her calculatingly. “So what do you want to do?”

“I want to suck you off,” she said bluntly. Draco’s eyes bugged out of his head, bringing a smile to her lips. “I want to suck you off and call you Harry.”

Draco glanced across the room at his reflection in the full length mirror. “I don’t really look anything like him, you realize,” he pointed out.

“Close enough,” with a strength belied by her short stature, Pansy shoved him back onto the bed and climbed on top of him. “Where are your glasses?”

Draco fumbled in his pocket and reseated the round wireframes across his face. Pansy’s smile took on a predatory edge, her eyes gleamed ravenously. She quickly unbuckled his belt and pushed the short Gryffindor flight robe open. Draco tried to help but she pushed his hands away and instructed him in a chiding tone to let her do it. She yanked his pants open and slid them down over his hips, revealing his erect member. His knob didn’t care who sucked it, he thought, as long as it got sucked.

Pansy chuckled huskily, pleased with what she saw. Draco wasn’t unduly flattered, he knew what made for a good looking prick, and he knew he had those qualities in spades. He looked down the length of his body as Pansy dipped her head and took him into her mouth. A groan escaped his throat as she worked with impossible skill.

Pansy’s technique was outstanding. Draco grasped the sheets and tried not to writhe too much. He reached down and placed his hand on the back of her head, only slightly put off by the long, fine strands that didn’t ruffle through his fingers like he would have preferred.

“Hands off,” she released him just long enough to hiss a rebuke and push his reaching arm away. He obliged, stretching up and grasping the headboard instead. She cupped, squeezed and massaged as she returned to sucking marvelously.

“Harry,” she whispered between long, deep drags.

“Harry,” Draco whispered in return, his eyes fluttering in ecstasy behind his eyelids.

“Pansy,” she snapped sharply, squeezing a little too tightly for comfort.

Draco yelped and his head came up off of the pillow. “Sorry, Pansy. Pansy.”

“That’s better,” her voice became a purr again and she went back to work.

Draco swallowed all urges to speak after that, Pansy gagged only once or twice but never lost her rhythm. She played her fingers around his entrance, releasing him once or twice to lick his inner thighs. Draco’s head felt like it would explode. He screwed his eyes shut as the urge to climax overwhelmed him. His breath quickened and his muscles bore down as wave after wave of ecstasy washed up his body from deep inside.

Pansy scrunched her face and withdrew belatedly, a mouthful of salty emission and a splash across her face her reward for good work. She turned her head and spat delicately, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She waited a few moments for Draco’s ecstatic convulsions to subside, then cleared her throat. Draco glanced down and saw the glistening spunk on her cheek and chin. She raised an eyebrow imperiously.

“A gentleman always cleans up,” she ordered. Draco retrieved his wand and obliged. He removed all traces from the purloined uniform and his bedsheets as well.

Pansy stood and straightened her costume, then tucked an escaped breast back into her black bustier with an air of practicality. She thanked Draco coolly and exited without another word. He could hear her footsteps retreating in the direction of her private room, no doubt focused on reliving the Potter fantasy for her own gratification in private.

Draco stood slowly and removed the quidditch gear, folding it neatly and placing it on his desk chair. Morning classes would be cancelled tomorrow, so he should have time to sneak down to the equipment shed to put it back. Although with the way his costume was received by the rest of the student body, he doubted anyone would be cross with him for the theft.

He waved his wand a few times to remove the lightning bolt scar from his forehead and revert his platinum locks to their former glory. he brushed his hair down with his hands, ruffling his fingers through the short strands and thinking about Pansy’s work. He returned to his bed and extinguished the light, then gripped himself firmly beneath the sheet for another go.


	19. Chapter 19

Harry was late for class, in spite of the fact that it was afternoon and the students had been granted the luxury of sleeping in. He dashed through the corridors on his way to Divination, and everyone he passed thumped his back and shook his hand, congratulating him on his performance the night before. Suddenly every bloody student was his best mate.

Meanwhile his real best mate had crashed his room in the middle of the night, bumbling drunkenly in and reminding Harry that he hadn’t set locks. He had aborted his perfunctory wank and pulled the coverlet up to conceal his hard-on. Ron had collapsed at the foot of his bed, cheeks aflame with drink and convulsing with giggles. Harry had had to smack him twice across the head to get a straight story out of him.

It turns out that his glee had been set off by Hermione, who had mere moments before informed him that perhaps it was time for them to consummate their relationship. That she had phrased it so formally was so typically Hermione that Harry could barely keep a straight face. Ron, on the other hand, had been so titillated by the idea in his inebriated state that he’d run straight out of the room in a confused flight response to the exciting prospect.

Harry had slapped him across the head again and ordered him back to Hermione’s room, where his girlfriend undoubtedly awaited his epiphany that he’d run away rather than taken her up on her offer. Ron sat up suddenly, epiphany descending like a pile of bricks. He bolted from the room and slammed the door behind him. Harry remembered to lock it this time.

And now he was late, having lain awake wondering how many students were finding glory while he sat alone in his room. His pent-up frustration gave him fitful dreams and now he was groggy and grumpy and late for class.

Fortunately he wasn’t the only one. Professor Trelawney tried her best to elicit responses from her exhausted students but the most she got were moans and mumbles. They shared a sigh of relief when class was over, then dragged themselves through the corridors to their next class. Harry was due for another round of grunt work in the Potions lab, something he did not look forward to.

Malfoy waited for him in the hall and walked with him in the direction of Slughorn’s classroom, looking only slightly more rested than the others. Without considering his friends’ privacy he told Malfoy about Ron’s bungled opportunity for sex, although he acknowledged that it was really just a matter of time at this point.

“Is the Weasel a virgin?” Malfoy asked.

“I think so,” Harry nodded. “I think I would have heard all about it if not.”

“I think lots of people got lucky last night,” Malfoy voiced the thought that had kept Harry awake in frustration.

“Did you?” Harry felt a surge of jealousy, suddenly wishing he hadn’t asked. He didn’t really want to know the answer.

“Sort of,” Malfoy shot him a sidelong glance. “Really you’re the one who got lucky, I just happened to be dressed like you.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry stopped abruptly.

“Pansy Parkinson,” Malfoy drawled with a smirk.

“You and Pansy?”

“She wanted me to pretend to be you,” Malfoy’s smirk widened.

“Did you?” Harry didn’t know what to think.

“Not really,” Malfoy shrugged dismissively. “Just kept the costume on while she did her thing.” He smiled faintly at the memory, “Quite a mouth on that one.”

“Great,” Harry threw his arms up in defeat. “I’m me all the time, why did she wait until you tried it?”

“She probably would never admit to you that she likes you in that way,” Malfoy paused. “Or at all.”

“Everyone is getting some except me,” Harry shook his head in disgust.

“I’m sure you get some sometimes,” Malfoy busied himself with his books and parchments.

“No, never,” Harry was bitter. He couldn’t conceal it for dignity’s sake.

“Never?” Malfoy looked up in surprise. “You’re a virgin?”

“Yeah,” Harry glowered.

“What about blowies?” Malfoy’s voice carried a distinct tone of disbelief. “Certainly you’ve had one of those.”

“Once.”

“What about,” Malfoy jiggled his hand crudely.

“Well yeah,” Harry rolled his eyes. “But that’s hardly sex, is it?”

“I had no idea,” Malfoy’s eyes were wide with surprise. “How have you not exploded by now?”

“I don’t know,” Harry looked miserable.

“You need some,” Malfoy said firmly, taking a step towards Harry. “It doesn’t have to be love, you just need someone to get you off. Everyone does sometimes.”

“Are you offering to help?” Harry’s face flushed, as it seemed to do so often these days. He hadn’t meant the question the way it sounded. Not really.

Malfoy smiled faintly again, “I might be able to help.” They looked at each other in awkward silence, neither one wanting to be the next to speak.

The clock tower chimed, indicating the start of class. The boys jumped, late again. They parted ways with a quick agreement to meet in the breezeway on Wednesday morning.


	20. Chapter 20

Draco was more confident this time, having seen the riotous diversity of muggle fashions. He was certain that he would fit in. He’d sent a request off to a Hogsmeade tailor earlier in the week, one who specialized in muggle styles. The tailor had sent back a perfectly fitted pinstriped light blue button down and strategically worn-in jeans, both of which fit like they were made for him. He topped it with a whisper soft slim-fitted black leather jacket. Potter arrived in a deep burgundy sweater over a gray collared shirt. His matching gray wool trousers were neatly cuffed. They didn’t waste any time and Apparated to the same alley as before.

The November air was crisp and they wasted no time heading up the street and a block over to the tattoo removal shop. The doctor was pleased with Draco’s progress, in spite of the fact that Draco wasn’t. The mark hadn’t budged much, just blurred and blotched at the edges. It looked like a messier rendition of what he’d started with. The doctor reassured him that it was exactly as expected and had the nurse apply a coating of anesthetic.

Draco laid in the padded recliner, staring at the ceiling with his shirt cuff rolled up to his bicep. Potter sat in the rolling chair, spinning himself slowly in circles and staring at his feet. They hadn’t spoken much since Apparating. Potter had seemed self-conscious and introspective since admitting his sexual inexperience. As the doctor reentered the room, Draco braced himself for the pain he knew was coming.

“After this treatment you should really start to see some progress,” the doctor said in his rolling, round accent. “Shall we proceed?”

“Yes,” Draco balled up his fist and set his jaw.

The doctor passed around the dark goggles and repeated his warning from last time. He then hefted his muggle laser wand.

“Fucking hell,” Draco squeezed his eyes shut as the laser slapped his skin. Involuntary tears immediately welled in his eyes. But before he could curse again Potter was at his side, grasping his right hand. His face was impossible to read with those goofy goggles on his face, but he squeezed reassuringly. He raised his other hand and touched Draco’s head, pulling his fingers gently through his hair. Draco closed his eyes, trying to focus on the comforting strokes as the doctor worked. The doctor didn’t seem to notice Potter’s intimate gesture. He kept working, zapping away at the Dark Mark.

As with the first treatment, it only took a few minutes. When he was done Draco’s arm looked like it was pinpricked all over. Tiny dots of blood rose to the surface and the surrounding skin was red like a sunburn. Harry held his hand and stroked his hair and told him it would be okay. The nurse applied ointment and a large adhesive bandage, then handed him a stack of supplies to take home with him.

The doctor and nurse gave him a few minutes to recover in private and pulled the door shut behind them. Potter was still holding his hand and teasing his hair. Draco looked up wonderingly, reluctant to say anything that would make the lovely feeling in his scalp stop. But he had to say something.

“You can take those goggles off now, you git,” he said, unable to prevent the warm affectionate tone in his voice.

Potter released his hand and removed the goggles, then reseated his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He grinned lopsidedly, his fingers still threaded through Draco’s hair.  
“Better?”

“You’re still a git,” Draco replied.

“I meant you,” Potter nudged Draco’s head.

“Yeah,” Draco reluctantly sat up. “We should probably go.”

Potter stood and straightened his sweater, then handed Draco his jacket. They stopped at the receptionist’s desk to make another appointment for early December, then a moment later they were back out on the sidewalk in the brisk late autumn air.

Potter led the way to the restaurant, pausing here and there to mutter to himself about street names. They had to double back once before he finally realized where he needed to go. Draco didn’t mind, the sun was bright and the sky was brilliant blue in that way that only happens in the fall. Each time Potter needed to turn or pause or change direction his hand bumped Draco’s for attention. It was so close to holding hands that Draco didn’t know what to make of it. He considered latching on himself to see what would happen, but thought better of it. If Potter wanted that, he would just do it.

When Potter finally spotted the small diner his face lit up triumphantly. His hand bumped Dracos, his pinkie curling briefly around the other boy’s finger. “There it is, I knew it was down here.”

“Wanky chicken, here we come,” Draco steeled his stomach, concerned that it would be too spicy for him.

It did turn out to be too spicy for him. The waiter offered him a sample of the jerk chicken before he ordered, and it took every bit of grace not to spit it out when the slow heat set in on him. He guzzled his water, shaking his head emphatically. No, he did not want to order some.

Fortunately there were other options, and he ended up with a nice plate of mild roasted garlic chicken with yellow rice and fried plantains. Potter, on the other hand, tore ravenously into his spicy meal, and had no shame about sniffing and wiping his nose as the hot pepper burned through him. Draco glanced up and saw beads of sweat on Potter’s brow, and marvelled that anyone would voluntarily consume a food that caused such a reaction. He sat back in his chair and shook his head.

“It’s brilliant!” Potter gave him his signature lopsided, goofy grin as he mopped his upper lip with his napkin.

“You’re mad,” Draco corrected him.

At the end of the meal they each ordered mango ice cream, which seemed to calm the fire inside Potter’s mouth. Draco ate his dessert quietly, trying to figure out how to start a conversation that he really didn’t want to have.

“Is something wrong?” Potter scooped a large chunk of tropical fruit into his mouth. “You’re quiet today.”

Draco cleared his throat and set his spoon down. “I need to ask you for a favor,” he began stiffly. “You don’t owe me anything, so I understand if you want to say no.”

“I’m not here because I feel like I owe you,” Potter pointed out.

“Right,” Draco clasped his hands together and stared at his intertwined, pale fingers. “I got a letter from the Ministry yesterday.” He stopped short. His voice had threatened to crack and it wouldn’t do to show such emotion in public. He took a deep breath and steadied himself. “They have decided to release my parents’...” he took another deep breath, “remains.”

“They’ve been holding them all this time?” Potter set down his spoon now, too. “Why?”

“There was some concern about their affiliation with the Dark Lord,” Malfoy said to the ice cream, unable to look up and meet Potter’s eyes. “Some concern about the way he resurrected himself in the past. They wanted to keep the,” he couldn’t say bodies, he couldn’t talk about them like that. “They kept them for observation to ensure there was no lingering enchantment.”

“And?”

“Well it’s like you said,” Draco fiddled with his utensils. “The Dark Lord really is gone this time. His enchantments are gone, too. There was nothing for them to have worried about after all.”

“And they’re being released back to you,” Potter nodded, understanding now.

“I have obligations,” Draco continued. “I need to have them interred in the family cemetery. I need to be there when it happens and pay my final respects.” He flipped the spoon over a few times and swallowed hard, willing himself to keep it together. “I can’t do it alone.”

Potter leaned forward slowly. Draco could feel him gazing at the top of his head. He knew if he looked up he would see that deep empathy that only Potter had ever offered him. He also knew he would break if he looked up into those green eyes. Not here, not in public. Potter slipped his hand across the table and covered Draco’s. He held it silently, gently stroking his thumb across the back of Draco’s fingers. He moved his other hand across the table and slipped it under Draco’s palm, holding it tightly.

“Of course I’ll come,” Potter said in a near-whisper.

“I haven’t decided when,” Draco told the table, miserable at the prospect. “When could you do it?”

“Anytime,” Potter squeezed his hand again. “You decide when, I’ll be there anytime.”

Draco bowed his head as tears welled in his eyes. He pressed his free hand to his face, trying to conceal the embarrassing upwelling of emotion. Potter said nothing, just held his hand and let him compose himself.


	21. Chapter 21

Once Malfoy spoke his need aloud, it seemed to pave the way for action. Three days later he asked Harry if he was free the next Saturday for the funerary ceremony. Harry agreed immediately to clear his schedule, which meant cancelling a weekend trip to London with Ron and Hermione. They of course wanted to know why.

He was reluctant to share Malfoy’s personal business, but decided to tell his two best friends anyway. They responded with silence, then shrill protests.

“You’re going to mourn them?” Ron squeaked, his eyes bugging out of his head. “Have you forgotten who they were? Lucius Malfoy! Lucius Malfoy!” He looked to Hermione for help.

“You can’t seriously think they deserve to be at peace,” Hermione shook her head disapprovingly.

“I think Draco Malfoy deserves to be at peace,” Harry corrected her.

“That prat?” Ron was on his feet, standing before the common room fireplace, waving his arms for emphasis. The other students who were attempting to study or play chess excused themselves and departed. “Have you lost your mind? Have you lost your memory? Have you forgotten the last seven years?”

“It’s obvious to anyone that you two have become friends,” Hermione tried a rational tone. “And it’s admirable to let bygones be bygones. But his family swore allegiance to the most dangerous dark wizard in history. If you stand at their graves and offer them peace,” she shook her head and covered her mouth with her hand as though to stop her thought from being spoken aloud.

“Maybe you want to invite George to the funeral,” Ron continued ranting. “Ask him if Fred would support that. Oh wait, he can’t, Fred is dead,” his eyes flashed furiously. “And Lucius Malfoy had a hand in his death. He may not have killed him himself, but it couldn’t have happened without him.”

“Draco Malfoy is my friend,” Harry gritted his teeth angrily. “Not Lucius Malfoy.”

“If you go,” Ron pointed vehemently at him and stopped himself. He raked his hand through his ginger hair. He rolled his head back and stared at the ceiling as though praying for sanity.

“Not if,” Harry said flatly. “I’m definitely going.”

“If you go,” Ron said again, shaking his head and still unable to finish the thought. “He’s taking advantage of you,” he said finally. “You obviously don’t see it. He’s made a charity case of himself and you’re running to rescue him like you would anyone else.”

“You don’t know him,” Harry said warningly. “Don’t talk about him like you know him.”

“And you do?” Ron paced the floor. “You’ve gone completely mad, Harry.”

“You can forgive him so easily?” Hermione’s eyes were wounded. She touched her forearm, and Harry remembered the word Bellatrix Lestrange had carved into the skin. The cuts had healed, and no scars remained, but the memory still hurt.

“Draco didn’t do that,” Harry reminded her. “He didn’t do anything like that. His parents gave him to the Dark Lord. His own parents. The only thing he did was try to save them from Voldemort’s power.”

“He took the Dark Mark,” Ron reminded him.

“He had no choice,” Harry shot back. “And he’s having it removed now.”

“Dark Marks can’t be removed,” Hermione said gently, as though revealing Malfoy’s deceit.

“They can. I was there, I’ve watched it done,” Harry immediately wished he hadn’t said that. His friends waited expectantly for him to explain. “It’s a tattoo. He’s having it removed by a muggle doctor with a laser.”

“What’s a laser?” Ron asked.

“How do you know?” Hermione didn’t need to ask, she was smart enough to have figured it out

“I’ve been going with him.”

“Just how much are you two hanging out?” Ron’s tone now took on an edge of jealousy.

Harry didn’t answer.

Ron cursed in disgust and stomped out of the common room. Hermione stared into the fireplace for a while, saying nothing. Finally she looked up at him, something penetratingly knowing in her eyes. She studied him, then nodded slightly to herself as though she finally understood. Then, without another word, she stood and left the room.

Harry didn’t sleep well that night. He didn’t sleep well for a few nights. At the quidditch match against Hufflepuff that week he nearly lost the snitch to their relatively inexperienced seeker. His teammates were as enthusiastic as ever over their victory, but Ron excused himself and took no part in the post-game revelry. Harry spent the evening sitting with Malfoy on the low stone wall outside of the main gates, talking about everything and nothing. He didn’t get much sleep that night, either, but he went to bed in a better mood.

As the end of the week approached, Harry found himself looking forward to very few moments in his days: the ones where he knew he would see a certain blond Slytherin boy in his classes. But because of the way the eighth-years were all piled together in every class, he had a hard time enjoying himself. He could feel the heavy weight of Hermione’s judgment on him when he and Malfoy’s eyes met across the room. He could feel Ron’s anger every time they paused to say hello after class.

He didn’t know what Hermione thought for sure. She hadn’t asked any questions and he hadn’t confirmed or denied anything. He didn’t know if she’d shared her private thoughts with Ron. Neither of them spoke of it, so he wasn’t sure whether he should bring it up again.

There was no chance to broach the subject again before Saturday rolled around. After breakfast he showered and dressed in what he hoped was appropriate funerary attire. He had a pair of black wool dress slacks, a dark gray button down shirt and a neatly stitched black knit sweater. It wasn’t as formal as a suit, but he didn’t know if this was a suit affair or not. When the green spark beacon charm floated through his wall and flashed for attention, he decided to stop fretting about it and set off for the breezeway.

Hermione was sitting in the Gryffindor common room with a blanket around her legs and a textbook in her lap. She set down her quill as Harry passed through.

“You look nice,” she said softly.

“Do I?” Harry smoothed down his sweater self-consciously. “Is it too casual?”

“I think it’s perfect,” she smiled sadly. She stood and crossed the room quickly, then stood on her toes to wrap her arms around his neck. “You’re a good friend, Harry.” She released him and held his face in her hands. “Malfoy is lucky to have a friend like you.”

“Thanks,” Harry smiled gratefully. “I’m lucky to have a friend like you.”

“I’ll always love you,” she said firmly. “No matter what you do or who you do it with.”

Harry heard her meaning. His heart ached, and the back of his eyes felt prickly. “I love you too, Hermione.”

“Ron will come around,” she added, returning to the sofa and wrapping her legs in the blanket once again. “He just needs time.”

Harry nodded and backed towards the door. Hermione picked up her quill as a way of letting him know that he didn’t need to say any more. He exited through the Fat Lady portrait and made his way down the moving stairs to the ground floor. He dashed to the breezeway and caught sight of Draco Malfoy, a shadow in black against the bright dappled sunlight.

Malfoy was dressed in charcoal gray slacks, a fitted black turtleneck, and a black blazer. No tie, Harry noted with relief. He didn’t think he was dressed too casually anymore. Malfoy extended his elbow and Apparated the instant he felt Harry’s grip. They landed with just a bit of a stumble on the stone floor of a very large room. Harry’s head swivelled around in surprise, having expected to land in the Malfoy family cemetery.

“Is this your house?” he wondered. It didn’t look familiar. For one, there were no walls or furniture.

“Yes,” Malfoy nodded grimly.

“What happened to it?” The space was enormous, stretching off in every direction with nothing to divide the space.

A look of recognition crossed Malfoy’s face as he remembered that Harry had been here once before. “I’ve gutted it,” he said simply. He took a few steps into the wide open space. “Malfoy Manor needs a change. I’m having it exorcised and then remodeled. It will be a whole new home when it’s done.”

“What did you do with all of your family’s belongings?” Harry wondered, craning his head up at the second floor balcony. From where he stood the space above them appeared to be cleared out, too.

“Storage for the most important things,” Malfoy dove his hands into his pockets and shuffled his feet. “Sold anything that wasn’t important.” He looked up pointedly, “Donated anything dangerous to the Ministry or Hogwarts for study. It’s how I spent my summer.”

“I can’t imagine,” Harry murmured. Their voices echoed faintly through the space. All that remained of the home’s original structure were exterior walls, floors and ceilings, windows and a smattering of structurally necessary columns.

Malfoy was still shuffling his feet, staring down at them and looking miserable. Harry took a few feeble steps towards him, wishing he knew how to take the pain away.

Malfoy looked up and nodded towards the front windows. “The carriage is here.”

They exited through the front, stepping lightly down the front stairs to the curved driveway. An old fashioned horse-drawn carriage awaited them, and the door swung open at their approach. Malfoy alighted first, then Harry. The door swung closed and the horses set off at a walking pace.

Malfoy’s face was drawn, brow furrowed, the vertical line between his eyes deeper than ever. His hand played pensively at his lower lip as he stared out through the carriage window at the passing countryside. He sighed shudderingly, involuntarily.

Harry didn’t know what to do. He lifted his arm and carefully brought it around Malfoy’s shoulders, slipping behind his head and curling around his arm. He drew Malfoy gently into the embrace and brought his head down to his shoulder. Harry leaned his own head over, resting his cheek on Malfoy’s hair. The blond boy didn’t resist. He leaned his weight into Harry and nuzzled his forehead into the space below Harry’s ear.

They rode in companionable silence as the carriage’s wheels creaked down the road. the horses were pulling them up a hill, and Harry could begin to make out the shape of monuments at the top. He reached over and grasped Malfoy’s hands, disentangling his fingers from each other and lacing his own through instead. Malfoy returned the grip with equal pressure.

Finally the carriage drew to a stop and the door opened on its own. Harry stepped out, followed by Malfoy. The cemetery must have been hundreds of years old, given the number of grave markers and the age of some of the stones. A small gravel path climbed towards the crest of the hill, lined with small shrubs and flanked by cultivated fruit trees. Malfoy faltered, unable to make the ascent on his own.

Harry took his hand and held it firmly. Malfoy looked up, his gray eyes searching Harry’s. Harry flashed him a brave smile and nodded his head in the direction of the path. Malfoy did not smile back, but stepped forward with him.

They walked hand in hand up the path, slowly but ever forward. The monument at the crest was made from recently quarried stone, shaped simply and elegantly in lines and floral patterns. The stones formed a small arch, with fluted columns to either side. A latticework had been added to the top, and recently sprouted vines climbed along and through the interwoven slats. Beneath the arch were two stone slabs. Lucius and Narcissa had been laid to rest beneath them. Malfoy retrieved his wand and flicked it twice, manifesting two long-stemmed white roses. He released Harry’s hand and stepped forward, then crouched down and laid a flower on top of each slab.

His shoulders fell. Instead of rising to his feet he collapsed. He came down on hands and knees as a tide of grief overtook him, shaking his body with great, heaving sobs. Harry knelt beside him and held him as tight as he could as the pain poured out of his friend.

Malfoy spoke between shuddering sobs, one moment telling his parents he missed them, the next begging to know why they’d abandoned him, and the very next apologizing for failing them. He was angry with the choices they had made, and was devastated that they hadn’t chosen him instead. He addressed most of his devastation at his mother, and most of his rage at his father. Harry held his friend as the storm of emotions tore through him, not speaking or offering any answers.

Finally the storm broke, and Malfoy was able to rise to his feet. He turned to face Harry, his eyes red and swollen, his face drawn with grief. Harry pulled him close and hugged him as tightly as he could, and Malfoy clutched at him as though he were a life preserver. Eventually Malfoy was able to raise his head and look Harry in the eye. He thanked Harry and screwed his face up, trying to stow away the emotion once again.

Harry brushed back a lock of his blond hair and smiled supportively. He drew Malfoy’s forehead down to his lips and kissed it lightly, not knowing if it was the right thing to do but feeling like he should.

Malfoy said a few more words, some vaguely ceremonial phrases that seemed appropriate for a burial. He wished his parents peace and a safe transition into the next world. And then he was ready to go.

Departing was easier than approaching, naturally. Harry walked in silence beside his friend, not sure if it was okay to speak yet. He felt something brush against his hand and looked down in surprise. Malfoy was reaching out hesitantly, his fingertips hovering shyly above Harry’s. Harry took his hand and smiled, and they walked together to the waiting carriage.

They rode back to the manor in quiet. Malfoy cast a quick recovery charm to clear his runny nose and unpuff his eyes. Looking better seemed to make him feel better. The carriage pulled up in front of the house and they stepped out, walking hand in hand up the steps and back inside.

Once they were inside they weren’t sure what to do. They were in the middle of a vast open space, nowhere to sit and nothing to do, holding hands without any distraction. It had to be acknowledged.

Harry looked down at their interlaced fingers. Malfoy did, too. No, thought Harry. Draco. Draco did, too.

“So this is a change,” Draco said dryly, squeezing Harry’s hand once.

“Yeah,” Harry was suddenly bashful.

“How long have we been dodging this?” Draco looked up into Harry’s eyes, smiling weakly.

“Weeks. Months,” Harry shrugged, his cheeks blushing pink. “Years?”

“Maybe,” Draco nodded.

He tugged Harry’s hand a little, like he was testing the other boy’s agreeability. Harry stepped forward timidly, his stomach turning backflips. Draco kept tugging until they were touching, their foreheads, their chests, even their knees touched. Harry could feel Draco’s breath on his skin and his heart raced in response. He looked up into his gray eyes and caught a sparkle there. He tilted his chin and brought his mouth up to Draco’s and just like that, they kissed.

It was sweet, innocent and hesitant, just a whisper of contact. But it was enough. Goosebumps sprang to life up and down Harry’s arms. Draco caught Harry’s chin in his hands, his fingers playing lightly down the sides of Harry’s face. He brushed his lips to Harry’s again, and the goosebumps redoubled.

The two boys, blond and brunette, stood in the slanted morning sunlight that filtered through the towering dusty windows. Their lips touched ever so gently, as they explored each other’s willingness. Their bodies were still, their hand moved in slight degrees. For a moment it was enough to know the other wanted to, too.

But soon their bodies caught up. Their hands wanted more, they wanted to press closer, to find and make contact with skin. Harry’s fingers moved of their own accord, looking for a way beneath Draco’s shirt. Draco sought his own contact, working his hands down Harry’s neck and slipping beneath his collar. The kissing intensified and suddenly it seemed imperative that they find someplace to explore this thing fully.

Draco pulled back and grasped Harry’s head in his hands. He bit his lip as his eyes ravaged Harry’s face hungrily. His mouth was tense, the bulge in his pants explained why. “Not here,” he said hoarsely. “Not in this house.”

Harry understood. He clasped Draco’s arms and closed his eyes as Draco Apparated them back to Hogwarts.


	22. Chapter 22

Draco released Potter as soon as they landed, glancing around furtively for anyone who might catch them together, their faces flushed with desire and the fabric of their slacks rising aggressively. Harry, he corrected himself. Not Potter. It was time to do away with surnames.

“What now?” he asked urgently, trying to think of a safe, private place where they could go.

“Gryffindor house,” Harry blurted out, and Draco thought he must be out of his mind.

“How will I get in there?” he demanded, his eyes fixated on Harry’s lips. He couldn’t stand it, they had to figure something out.

“Invisibility cloak,” Harry grabbed his hand and ran, as desperate for release as Draco.

They darted into the school, dropping their mutual grip at the sound of approaching classmates. They ducked down a side corridor to avoid having to make small talk, then ascended the multiple flights of stairs to the red and gold tower. Draco tapped his foot impatiently as the stairwells swung around, making their trip twice as long as it needed to be.

Finally they arrived at the Fat Lady painting. Draco stood to the side as Harry uttered the password. He leaped through the portal, leaving the Slytherin boy in silence and anguish. Draco shoved his hands deep into his pockets and leaned against the wall. If any other Gryffindors appeared, he hoped he would look disinterested and casual. He suspected he looked neither, as the vision of pressing Harry Potter’s flesh swam through his mind’s eye. He probably looked mad, he thought. What if Harry didn’t come back? he thought. Maybe he had revealed too much and scared him off, he thought.

The Fat Lady swung open again and Harry’s handsome grinning face appeared. He clambered out and held up a barely visible slip of shimmery silver.

“Invisibility cloak,” he said happily, licking his lips and eyeing Draco hungrily. “Put it on.”

Draco touched the silvery shimmer, his eyes widening at the lightweight satiny texture. He drew it over his head and let it drape down around him. It was disorienting, looking down and seeing no feet below him.

“Take my elbow,” Harry stuck his arm out. “I can’t see you, so you’ll have to make sure you stick by me.”

“Right,” Draco grasped Harry’s arm and took a step forward. Harry spoke the password again and climbed through the portal behind the painting. Draco followed, and the Fat Lady was undisturbed by his passage.

They entered the common room, where the Weasel and Granger were cuddling by the fire in a sickening display of lovey dovey woo. Fortunately they seemed to have no interest in Harry’s comings and goings. Draco shot them an invisible v-sign, enjoying the opportunity to silently insult the pair of prats.

“Oh Harry,” Hermione suddenly looked up. Draco’s heart leapt into his throat. Had she seen him after all?

“Yeah, Hermione?” Harry’s voice was thick and distracted.

“How did it go today?” The nosy bint had the nerve to pat the sofa cushion next to her as though inviting him over for a bit of a chat. Draco dug his fingers into Harry’s arm, ensuring he wouldn’t obey the summons.

“Fine, great,” Harry nodded a little too enthusiastically. Smooth, Draco thought. “I have to run,” Harry added awkwardly, then exited in a hurry with the cloaked Slytherin boy in tow. Now free of prying eyes, they made their way towards privacy.

They dashed up the stairs to the top of the tower. Harry released the locks and threw open the door, pausing until he felt the invisible swish of Draco’s robe pass over the threshold. He slammed the door shut and locked it to stop any unwanted guests from barging in.

Draco pushed back the hood of the invisibility cloak, then let it drop to the floor in a shimmering heap. He brushed his hair down self-consciously and straightened his jacket. Harry smiled nervously.

“So um,” he ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “Do you want a Butterbeer? I have a few bottles.”

“Sure,” Draco was also suddenly shy, overtaken by bashfulness at the sight of Harry’s awkward fidgeting.

Harry crossed the room quickly and retrieved two bottles from a crate near the window. He sat on the window ledge and popped the corks, then extended one to his Slytherin guest. He nodded once at the bit of ledge next to him, inviting Draco to sit.

The blond boy hesitated only for a moment before accepting the drink and the seat. He perched on the edge of the stonework and took a long pull from his beer.

“I’m just going to--” Harry stood and hoisted his sweater over his head, tossing it onto a pile of clothing on the easy chair by the closet. It immediately became just another bit of clutter in a messy room. “Sorry, a bit scratchy,” he said apologetically as he reseated himself.

“Yes well,” Draco stood and shucked his black suit coat, folding it neatly and laying it along the edge of Harry’s desk. He sat again, feeling a welcome few degrees cooler, but more exposed in his fitted black turtleneck.

The two boys drank in silence for a few moments, and Draco started to wonder if coming here had been a bad idea. He was inside Gryffindor House, and if things went pear shaped he’d be forced to try to sneak out without being discovered. He ought to just leave now while he could. This was a fool’s fantasy anyway.

He looked up, a cheap excuse on his lips. Harry looked up just at that moment, too. For a heartbeat, gray eyes gazed into green. And then Harry’s hand lifted, as though in a dream, moving in minute increments. It crossed the small space between them and slowly glided to Draco’s cheek. His touch was so light, so tentative, like a whisper. Draco closed his eyes, every ounce of himself focused on that tiny bit of heat radiating from Harry’s palm.

Feeling a bit more confident, Harry ran his hand through Draco’s platinum hair, watching the way the fine white strands flicked through his fingers. He traced the curve of Draco’s ear, gently caressing the softness of his earlobe. He cupped Draco’s chin and stroked his cheek with his thumb.

Draco’s hand moved on its own now, too. It rose to clasp Harry’s wrist, not tentatively, but firmly and with need. He opened his eyes and gazed at Harry with desire. He pulled on his arm, drawing the other boy in. Their faces moved together, slow and unsure of how to close the distance. Their noses bumped, and Harry tilted his head ever so slightly. When their lips brushed against each other an electric thrill surged through Draco’s body. He clutched reflexively at Harry’s wrist, pulling him in quickly and deepening the kiss. Harry’s other hand ran up Draco’s arm to his shoulder as Draco snaked his free hand around to the back of Harry’s head, grasping his mess of dark hair.

Harry’s lips were soft and the kiss was warm, softer and warmer than Draco had imagined it would be. He parted his lips slightly and Harry took the invitation by flicking his tongue across the opening. Draco responded, licking and drawing Harry’s tongue into his mouth. Their arms tangled as each tried to pull the other closer. Hands clutched and tugged at hair, arms squeezed shoulders and stroked backs. The sound of their heavy breathing filled the room as their tongues grappled and teased.

I’m kissing Harry Potter, Draco thought, his stomach fluttering.

Harry must have been entertaining similar thoughts. He released the kiss with a soft, wet pop and butted his forehead against Draco’s. He was breathless, lungs heaving, cheeks flushed. He closed his eyes and pressed his head against the other boy’s, hands grasping and releasing his clothes like a cat kneading its claws.

“Draco Malfoy,” he whispered huskily, clenching two handfuls of Draco’s shirt in his fists.

“Harry Potter,” Draco replied, a gentle smirk rising to the surface. It was just marvelous.

Moving quickly, Draco’s fingers flew to the buttons of Harry’s shirt. He deftly slipped them free and pushed the fabric back over the brunette’s shoulders, revealing well-toned arms, honed through hours of quidditch training. With a smooth follow-through, he released Harry from the shirt completely and tossed it onto the floor. An appreciative grunt escaped his throat as he took in his first look at Harry’s muscled chest. His hands moving independently again, he ran his palms down from his shoulders to his rippled abs. His chest was hairless, either naturally or by choice, he wasn’t sure. But it was comforting, since Draco himself came from a long line of naturally hair-free stock. He realized he was nervous about whether Harry would admire him the way he admired Harry.

Harry didn’t give him time to think. He quickly dove in for another kiss, his tongue probing and searching Draco’s ready mouth. He slid his hands down Draco’s body and grasped his shirt on either side, untucking it from his slacks. With an impatient push he shoved the turtleneck up over Draco’s head, and with a firm tug he yanked it free and tossed it over his shoulder with a roguish grin. He drew in a breath as he got his first glimpse of Draco’s pale, lithe physique. Perfectly creamy skin covered lean and well-balanced muscle tone. The last year or so had been kind to Draco Malfoy, filling out his lanky angles with a mature fullness that begged to be touched and savored.

Harry slipped his arms under Draco’s and drew him into a close embrace. He dipped his head and dropped a kiss into the curve of Draco’s neck. He ran his tongue up to Draco’s ear and buried his nose in his short blond hairs. Draco responded in kind, nuzzling Harry’s messy black hair. He inhaled deeply; the scent of the other boy was maddening.

Draco couldn’t take another minute of it. He stood, drawing Harry to him and plunging in for more deep kisses. He slipped his hands down and unbuckled Harry’s belt, freeing the button on his slacks and pushing them down, underwear and all, all the way to the floor. Not to be outdone, Harry grasped Draco’s belt before he could get a good look and shoved his slacks down, too.

Both boys stood motionless for a moment, foreheads touching, ragged breath full of need as they each gazed down at the other’s engorged member. Harry’s was spectacular, Draco noted possessively. His own was longer, but Harry’s was thicker, and both were rigid with desire. He reached down and grasped Harry in his hand, slipping his fingers over the satiny skin. A drop glistened at the tip as Harry’s eyes rolled up in his head. Feeling his confident swagger return, Draco tipped his head up and forced Harry to look him in the eye as he stroked with a firm grip. He smirked and grasped Harry’s hair with his other hand, tongue playing hungrily across his lips and commanding Harry’s attention. The other boy stared ravenously at his quirked mouth, following the movement of his tongue like he was mesmerized. Now totally in control, Draco tugged Harry over to the unmade bed and turned him, pushing him down to the burgundy sheets and climbing on top.

He was aching for attention by now, and Harry was quick to oblige. He reached down and grasped Draco’s knob, driving a grateful moan from deep within the blond boy’s throat. Their arms bumped clumsily as they stroked each other and thrust mindlessly. Harry reached up with his other hand, swept Draco’s mouth down to his and sucked passionately. They both grunted and groaned, rutting against each other like animals.

Draco suddenly released Harry and pushed his hand away. He broke the kiss with a sloppy slurp and pressed his lips and tongue down Harry’s throat, then his chest, then his stomach. Without pausing he drew Harry’s member voraciously into his mouth and took it as far as he could. Harry cried out, his hands clutching the blankets. Draco dipped his hand under his chin and cupped and squeezed and tickled the crisp, curly brown hairs. He pushed and Harry’s prostate awoke for the first time, sending waves of ecstasy straight to his brain.

Draco felt like he would explode. He reached down with his other hand and grasped himself as he sucked Harry like a starving man. He wanted to come, and knew it wouldn’t be far off. But he couldn’t let himself, not yet.

He released his prick and propped himself up for balance, reaching with his other hand around the base of Harry’s balls. He ran the tip of his finger gently around the puckered entrance. Harry grasped the headboard of the bed, writhing in delicious agony. Draco carefully pushed his finger past the furrowed skin and plunged into the warm, moist channel beyond. Harry sucked in a breath and went rigid, startled by the unfamiliar sensation.

“Shh,” Draco murmured, lifting his face from Harry’s groin. Harry’s eyes snapped into focus and looked down at him. The sight of Draco Malfoy crouched naked between his legs was almost more than he could take. He fought the urge to climax as Draco dipped his head down for another deep swallow.

Harry’s back arched as his prostate sent a torrent of fire up through his groin and into his belly. His breath was ragged, and he cried out, unable to stop the wave of ecstasy that crashed down over him. Draco gave one last push with his hand and then slowly released, carefully withdrawing as Harry’s muscles spasmed and bore down.

As the brunette lay shuddering with aftershocks, Draco crawled up the length of his body and drove his mouth into Harry’s. He seized Harry’s hand and squeezed it around his own knob, the need to climax almost painful by now. Harry obliged, tugging and pulling urgently as Draco rocked against him and groaned uncontrollably. He reached down and wrapped his hand around Harry’s, guiding the motion and speed. It took only a moment, and then he came with a thunderous recoil. The two boys writhed against each other as the wave rolled away, and finally collapsed onto the sheets with a mutual grunt of relief.

They gasped for breath, side by side in exhaustion. Harry searched fruitlessly for his wand, and finally rolled over and scooped up an undershirt from a pile on the floor to mop up the rapidly cooling, sticky mess. Draco laid back and let Harry do the cleanup, too awash in afterglow to care about such mundane details at the moment.

Harry tossed the used shirt into the dirty hamper near the closet and rolled back over. He curled his long frame around Draco’s, nestling his head into the curve between his shoulder and neck. His breath was soft on Draco’s skin, and he curled his arms around Harry protectively. Their legs entwined and Draco tilted his head to nuzzle Harry’s hair again. He smiled gently at the ceiling.

“That was brilliant,” he murmured, body thrumming with pleasure. “Thank you.”

Harry raised his head, smiling up into the other boy’s eyes. He pressed a gentle kiss onto Draco’s mouth, then resettled his head on his shoulder.

“Anytime,” he said.

**************************

END


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